


The Garrison Heart

by Marvella15



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Friendship/Love, Original Character(s), Romance, Slow Burn, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 62,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8611078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvella15/pseuds/Marvella15
Summary: The first time they hug it’s his birthday. Malcolm has already known her five years (Or was it four? Fuck knows). But with their arms around each other it feels like meeting her for the first time all over again.Rated M because of language.





	1. Malcolm: Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> First, all the thanks in the world goes to[ elloette](http://elloette.tumblr.com/) who, on top of being an incredible beta, is also the only reason this fic is a real thing and not just a personal headcanon. I showed her this chapter almost a year ago and she's been a non-stop cheerleader and source of encouragement. Thank you! <3
> 
> Second, some of the chapters follow along with or are directly connected to a certain episode. I'll note which one here in case anyone is interested. Recommended viewing for Chapter 1: Season 3, Episode 5

The first time they hug it’s his birthday. Malcolm has already known her five years (Or was it four? Fuck knows). But with their arms around each other it feels like meeting her for the first time all over again.

After nicking Nicola’s car, which quite honestly was the least she owed him after flapping her fucking mouth all over the radio, he considers telling the driver to take him home. _But what’s waiting there?_ he thinks. The same as what waited for him back at the office. Cold emptiness. He might as well go where there’s cake.

He waves the driver off as he shoves out of the car and lumbers towards his office. The place wasn’t half bad really, this late at night. No one here, the silence actually welcoming instead of agonizing. His naturally long strides carry him silently through the halls (no need to stalk down them like a raptor on the hunt when all of the prey had gone home) until he rounds the corner, his office in sight.

The lights of the building are muted but ahead of him, his office light is on proper with the door halfway open. There’s no point in asking who the fuck would still be hanging around. Only one person daft enough.

Malcolm smiles, the rare real thing that Sam once told him during some other late night made him look far too friendly. He’d immediately dropped into a scowl and she’d laughed at him, which only made the smile come back in full force.

From the hallway he looks in to see her organizing his desk. No doubt she was preparing whatever he would need in the morning and cleaning up whatever he had left behind. Putting his life back together was one of Sam’s many, many skills.

He slips into the office quietly, intending to surprise her, but she’s too attuned to him for that. She glances up from the desk when Malcolm is still several feet away and smiles at him. He says the first thing that comes to mind.

“I thought I told you to go home.”

Sam shrugs. “Thought I better wait, just in case.”

“Of what?” he says, a slight sneer on his face as he joins her behind his desk. “Government emergency? Minister caught wanking in the PMs office, reporters slithering out of their snake holes for a comment?”

“No,” she says, amused. “In case you came back.”

He’s taken aback even though he shouldn’t be. He’s known the reason since he saw the light still on. Sam always does this, surprises him when he should know well enough already.

“Right...” Malcolm says, some of his bravado slipping away.

“And besides, we always spend your birthday together.” She says it quietly as if only to herself except she’s looking straight at him. He suddenly feels ashamed.

“Fuck, you’re right. We do.”

Usually it’s doing their normal day-to-day shit and she doesn’t mention his birthday at all until the end when she slides him a modest present she conjures from nowhere. Never the Scotch or whiskey he doesn’t drink or cigars he pretends to smoke. Small, personal things no one thought the Dark Lord of Downing Street would appreciate.

One year a neatly wrapped black bow-tie he wore every time he needed one.

Another year a beautiful pen. The weight of it felt right in his hand while he signed document after document. “Plus it’ll double as a fucking shank in a pinch,” he had told her and she had rolled her eyes at him.

He was such a twat. How could he have forgotten? Another consequence of Nicola fucking Murray and her never ending litany of moronic ideas. One more reason to hate her.

Malcolm recovers himself. “Well,” he says, clearing throat, “did you have some cunt cake already?”

Sam’s smile returns. “Yeah. It was quite good. Made sure to leave you some.” She nods towards the box still on his desk.

“Trying to make me as enormous as fuckin’ Fatty, are ye?” He pins her with a fierce stare that makes everyone else wither back into their shells but Sam just smirks, in on a private joke.

“Please. We both know you’ll work it all off running back and forth between here and DOSAC.” She glances back at the pile of papers she had been fiddling with so she misses the way Malcolm’s face drops.

“Besides, it’s your favorite kind: mocha with a buttercream frosting too sweet for most eight-year-olds,” she chuckles and he feels the rising bile in his stomach settle.

“Wonder how Tom managed that,” he says, not turning around to look at her.

“Not as much of an ignorant prick as you think, I guess.”

He spins around, full of fire in an instant. “Hey, don’t fuckin’ say things like that out loud. That is between you, me, and these fuckin’ walls,” he whispers, gesturing to his office as if she could mistake his meaning. Instead, she eyes him curiously, cocking her head a little to the left, and he understands she was only teasing. Christ, he’s on edge, still wound up from his session of one-upmanship with that bald brainless hippy. He wipes a hand over his face.

“Malcolm…”

He cuts her off. “Did you listen to Nicola and that sagging old ponce from the Opposition on the radio as well?”

“Mmm-hmm, I heard it. It was political entertainment at its finest though far less fun without the running commentary.” She chuckles softly.

A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. He realizes now that was the best part of his birthday, lounging in his office hollering comments to Sam across the hall while they listened to Nicola Murray witter on about female circumcision. “Yeah, I know I left in a bit of a rush. Got a little excited there for a while. Thought maybe for once a minister could do their fuckin’ job without needing me around to wipe their arses. But, you know...” Malcolm gestures in mock surprise and Sam nods knowingly. She’s standing only a few feet from him holding a pile of papers to her and somehow looking just as radiant this late at night as she does every morning.

He clears his throat again. “Anyway, we should both go home. It’s fucking late, there’s fuck all else to do ‘ere. Come on, let’s pack it in. My birthday present to us both.” He waves his hands in a shooing motion. Sam stands her ground, amused at him still.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods a little. “Or how about we go get something to eat? It’s way past dinner time for normal people but only a little past for us.”

Malcolm hesitates. There’s something in the air he can’t quite identify and that makes him nervous. He stammers out a reply, trying to decline, but Sam persists. “Come on, we’ve only had cunt cake to eat in the last several hours. You need real food, Malcolm, we’ve talked about this. And I know I do.”

He doesn’t miss the implication. She put off her dinner to wait for him. Guilt pounds in his heart. His tongue feels too thick for his mouth.

Sam sweetens the deal. “There’s the Italian place you love within walking distance. You love a good walk now and then. They have that cheesy bread and waiters who know how to keep their fuckin’ mouths shut, as you put it last time.” Everything she’s saying sounds like the best idea ever and his stomach growls. He shuffles his feet searching for the right answer. She gives it to him.

“It’s your birthday, Malcolm. Just say yes.”

He meets her eyes fully and she’s looking at him so earnestly he can’t help giving in. “Fuck, yeah ok, let’s go,” he says with a heavy sigh. He expects her to comment on it (never one to back down from a chance to tease him) but her smile brightens and she rushes back to her desk to grab her coat. “But I’m paying,” he calls after her.

“You are fucking not!” she hollers back. “It’s your birthday! I’m buying you dinner!”

He decides not to argue, for once in his life. That’s all he does all day anyway, argue with morons and wankers about dumb shit they should already know. He bleeds himself dry having the same discussions over and over using everything in his arsenal to keep this government afloat. The crushing weight of it all suddenly bears down on him. He leans against the mantle behind his desk and shuts his eyes.

That’s what he does, kills himself every day to save this government. He can’t even remember a life that’s any different. He’s spent the last however many birthdays with Sam, yeah, but also at work. Always at the office even when he’s not physically there. It pulses in his body, a gremlin living in him, eating away at his gray matter, sucking his bone marrow, gnawing at his frozen soul. And for what?

These mouth-breathing cunts wanted him gone. They’d rejoice if he left, if he was fired. Fuck, that’s not even the half of it. They didn’t just want him gone; they wanted him dead. They would happily drag him through this office and let everyone spit on his corpse. They wanted to dance on his grave and piss on his tombstone all while celebrating that the great Malcolm Fucking Tucker was finally out of their lives, gone from this world.

“Malcolm?” He hadn’t heard her come back in and struggles to right himself.

“Sorry, yeah, y’ready?” His voice is far too choked and he instinctively wipes moisture from his eyes, his own fucking body betraying him.

He avoids looking at Sam. She steps closer.

“Malcolm,” she says again. There’s no pity in her voice, and thank fuck for that because he couldn’t bear it if there were. Only reassurance, concern. From anyone else he would suspect an agenda, but not Sam. Never Sam.

He clears his throat. “Sorry, sorry,” he repeats. He finally glances at her, knowing his eyes must still be red, and finds she’s closer than he thought. He can see the tears brimming in her own eyes.

“Oh, Sam, no don’t you fuckin’ worry,” Malcolm says, his voice still not right. “I’m fine. I’ll be fuckin’ fine, it’s just been a long fuckin’ day, lass.” He sounds weary and feels worse.

Sam swallows roughly and inches closer. Her eyes dart over him and he realizes she’s nervous which is entirely unlike her, especially with him. His breath catches in his throat.

With other people, there’s always a trick. They’ll speak softly so you are forced to listen. They’ll pretend to be compassionate so you’ll open up to them. They’ll offer you comfort only to turn and throw it in your face.

But when Sam Cassidy slides her arms carefully around his torso and steps into him, he knows it’s real. She hides her face over his shoulder, needing to perch up just a little on her toes to manage it. Her hands are light on his back, just brushing his coat, and she keeps from pressing against him. But she’s so solid, so real, so gentle with him he feels a wave of emotion crash into him at even this slight touch.

A shuddering breath escapes him and he hears Sam sniff into his shoulder. He hates that he’s made her upset, hates it more than the creature clawing inside his chest. Malcolm’s arms are suspended in the air, not touching her, not returning her embrace. This is what he is, a man who takes and takes without giving. A parasite. He tries to tell her so but can’t make his words work anymore.

“Malcolm,” she murmurs and he swears he can feel it even through three layers of fabric. “It’s okay.” Her hand passes down his back, stroking only his coat but he feels that on his skin too. “It’s okay,” she says again, her voice thick with emotion, with worry. For him.

He angles his head away from her, unworthy of her compassion. But it’s spreading around him, swirling over and under him like a shield. The vitriol he keeps close at hand tries to break through, the black mass of hatred telling him this is undeserved, it isn’t right, every feeling of insecurity, inadequacy, every instance of failure both political and personal roaring up in protest.

But there is no room for any of it between Sam’s arms.

He won’t let himself cry, holds it back with an iron will and muscles it down. And yet. Even his will breaks. Even he can’t deny the comfort found in the embrace of someone you-

Malcolm’s arms fold around her and he presses into her. They sigh together.

Little by little the weights drop off Malcolm’s shoulders. The screaming in his brain becomes muffled. The claw around his heart squeezes, reminding him who he is, what he does, the living coffin he’s nailed himself into. It’s unwilling to let him escape this easily. As though anything about this was even remotely fucking easy. He makes a choked sound deep in his throat. Strangled from the inside out.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Sam tightens her hold and this time when she runs a hand down his back he feels it. He shivers and finally fucking lets go.

The anger feeding his brain silences. It all just fades away for a little while. His hatred toward the blonde producer with a death wish. Then the rancor he reserves just for Nicola Murray and her team of cockups. Even his contained rage at Tom for considering bringing back a certain mustachioed, balding psychopath eases away. None of it seems to matter in this moment under the new, welcome weight of Sam’s arms.

Last to go is Tim in fucking Ruislip. Malcolm rankles instinctively at that thought, his shoulders tensing. Sam stretches her fingers against his shoulder blades in reply. Her hands a balm radiating through him. He shuts his eyes tighter and lets himself bask in it.

She eases down from her tiptoes, anchoring herself by her hands on his back and relaxing into his arms. It’s comforting to know he’s holding her too. He puts one palm flat against the center of her back, the other just above it, holding her secure. Wanting to feel her there even through her thick coat. Her hair is soft against his cheek. When she shuffles against his shoulder it glides across his skin. He’s certain he can feel her breath through every layer. There’s no longer the catch of tears in her breathing. His own flows without restraint. He can’t remember ever feeling this pleasantly warm.

Sam breaks the hug first but only to lean back and meet his eyes. For an instant, he thinks she might be about to kiss him or he might be about to kiss her. Panic immediately floods his mind but at what Malcolm isn’t sure. Then the moment passes and neither of them has moved so he loosens his hold on her. She presses her hands to his back one last time then slides them away, her touch fleeting, like a blanket slipping off him in the night. He catches her hands between them. Gives them a squeeze. Smiles.

“Come on, before this old man falls asleep standing up like some ancient fucking giraffe or some shite.” He gestures towards the door and tugs her in front of him before, God help him, reluctantly letting go of her hands.

“Giraffes don’t sleep standing up, Malcolm.” She giggles a little at him.

“Huh?” He walks alongside her, their elbows bumping as they weave back out of the building.

“Elephants, horses, flamingos, I think. They sleep standing up.”

“You’re gonna correct me on my fuckin’ birthday? For fuck’s sake, give a man a break.” Malcolm flashes her a cheeky grin, settling back into himself again. They set out of the rear entrance to Number 10 and begin the familiar route to the restaurant. He hovers close to her side out of awareness of the hour and absolutely not for any other reason. Sam doesn’t seem to mind. They talk about anything except work so mostly she does the talking. He doesn’t mind either.

The restaurant is deserted as they knew it would be and they take a customary table away from the door. They order quickly, without consulting the menu, and a minute later warm bread is on the table. Not for the first time, he admires the way Sam tears into food. It’s much the same way he usually tears into ministers: vigorously and without restraint.

Around mouthfuls of bread, she continues telling him about watching over her nephews a few weekends back. He listens and admires the way she can be so full of life when he knows she’s dead tired. The job might not suck the life out of her the way it does for him, and he will do anything in his power to keep it that way, but 15 hour days are still tiring, no matter who you were.

Somehow Sam’s mood doesn’t darken. She’s pleasant to their server, smiling genuinely when he brings their food (fettuccine for him, penne for her with lots of sauce he knows she’ll mop up with her bread) and thanks him every time he refills their drinks. Their conversation shifts from family to movies to books and everywhere in between. She’s still the one doing most of the talking and he’s glad. Malcolm relishes these moments. There’s so much she knows about him and he knows he could never even the playing field between them but he likes trying to return the favor.

He knows too that she worries about him more than he would like but that was a two-way street. That the job might overtake him isn’t a concern. Fuck, it’s practically inevitable. But he won’t let it have Sam. Sam, who likes documentaries and romantic comedies, who would rather read two books at once than decide between them, who can get along with anyone anywhere, who is better educated on the political state than most ministers. Also not for the first time he thinks she should be the one running this fucking country.

As she predictably soaks up the leftover sauce on her plate with bits of bread, he predictably leans back in his seat to take her in. He thinks he hasn’t stopped smiling since they left Number 10. Sam catches him and stops midway through a story about her parents’ holiday to a cottage in Yorkshire.

“What is it?”

Malcolm shakes his head and motions for her to continue. She chews thoughtfully for a moment, studying him, then picks up the story. When she meets his eyes again, a soft smile blooms on her face. He knows it must match the one he’s wearing. He can’t help it.

He knows tonight won’t be enough to change anything. Every problem created today and all of the new ones tomorrow will still exist and demand every strand of his DNA to correct. Even Sam’s special brand of magic that seems honed specifically to him can’t fix that. Can’t fix him. He doesn’t need her to, doesn’t want her to carry that responsibility. He thinks she knows that, or at least he really fucking hopes she does. For now, though, all those problems seem distant, and way, way less important than hearing about Sam’s brother trying to wrangle her nephews back into his car after she’d spent the day pumping them full of sugar. Malcolm laughs with her and the tension in him lessens even more.

When the check comes he keeps his hands resolutely to himself. Sam slowly takes the bill, her eyes locking with his in a silent challenge. He gives her an innocent look and shakes his head as if to say, _I wouldn’t fucking dare_. A sly smile stretches over her face.

He insists on walking her back to Number 10 and she counters by then insisting on driving him home. “Don’t be daft,” he tells her. “I live in the complete opposite fucking direction. I can get a car at Number 10 or take a taxi. Fuck knows the drivers have got sod all else to do at this hour.”

She plants herself on the sidewalk and crosses her arms. Did she always have the ability to call such fierce fucking determination to her face or did she learn that from him? For the second time that night Malcolm caves far too quickly for a man of his reputation.

“Fine,” he says, voice heavy with mock exasperation. Sam looks incredibly pleased with herself. “And you can lose that wee fucking smirk right fucking now,” he snaps at her. “You look like Ben when he’s finished his afternoon wank in the cupboard.” She grimaces as one does when confronted with anything to do with Ben Swain but shrugs off the insult. There was little heat behind it anyway.

With real food in their bellies, the walk back passes much faster than the stroll they took there. Quicker than he would like they are each walking toward one side of her car. He’s just reaching for the handle when she says, “Oh! By the way, there’s something on the seat for you.”

He frowns in confusion. “Huh?” She nods towards the passenger seat and climbs in the driver’s side. He opens his door and retrieves the envelope neatly placed on the cushion. He tears it open while still outside her car and laughs at the contents. A one-year subscription to a fruit-of-the-month club. Angling himself into the car, Malcolm tucks the certificate back into the envelope and safely stows it inside his jacket.

“You’re fucking brilliant, you know that?”

She lifts one shoulder, simultaneously agreeing with him and brushing the compliment aside. She eases out into the deserted street and follows the route to his house like they do this every night.

He watches her, eyes squinted in discernment, then smiles. “Sam, did you plan out this whole fucking thing?”

“No,” she says, a little too quickly. She knows it too by the way she keeps her eyes trained on the road. “Not everything,” she says quietly.

They’re both quiet after that until she pulls up in front of his house. He suddenly feels awkward, unsure how to end this night that has been equal parts familiar and entirely new. Unbuckling his seatbelt he puts one hand on the door handle before turning back to her.

“Tonight was…” he hesitates, trying to find the right words. “...the best fuckin’ birthday I could’ve asked for.” He means it, probably more than she knows. But then she meets his eyes and Malcolm realizes she does. “Thank you, love.”

“Of course,” she says, her voice hushed even though they’re alone. “Of course, Malcolm.” They hold each other’s gaze for a few beats and Malcolm feels that same panic creep up his spine as when she pulled back from the hug. He flings open the door and makes a quick escape up the steps to his porch. At the door, he turns around to wave at her and she waves back.

Inside he leans against the closed door, eyes shut, and listens to her car pull away.

He’s alone. The house is still. The silence presses in on him. 

He sheds his coat but retrieves Sam’s birthday present from the pocket. His fingers touch the envelope and pull out the certificate again. In the corner, she’d drawn a birthday cake and next to it written: _x Sam_. Malcolm runs his thumb over it reverently then catches himself and shakes his head.

He sets the gift on his table as he makes his way upstairs and hastily replaces his clothes with his sleepwear. He avoids himself in the mirror while he brushes his teeth then slips into his bed, mind still whirring, and piles the blankets over him. They’re heavy, holding him down like a straightjacket, his mother used to say. He replays the day in his mind and tries to lay out a mental plan for tomorrow but he’s too exhausted.

As he mercifully drifts to sleep he can’t help remembering Sam’s arm brushing his as they tore into bread, the scent of her shampoo as she held him tight, her smile lighting up the dark. All of it seeps into him like a warm poultice. He dreams of nothing and is glad.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the rest of the story pretty well figured out so I should be able to stick to a regular posting schedule. Thanks for reading!


	2. Sam: The DOSAC Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended viewing for Chapter 2: Season 3, Episode 6

She had never met Steve Fleming before. 

He was already ousted from his job by Malcolm when she came on board. Occasionally over the years, he’d popped up in conversations. No one seemed very broken up to see him booted out the back door with his dignity in shambles. Maybe that was just the way of it for any Director of Communications in politics.

Jamie had told her Fleming was just “a dumbfuck with balls the size of anal beads and brains even smaller.” Jamie had also warned her not to mention Fleming to Malcolm. Sam had rolled her eyes at him. She knew better. And while part of her was curious a much larger part didn’t pay Malcolm’s predecessor any mind. He was long gone and she was far too preoccupied.

But in the weeks following Malcolm’s birthday things took a sharp turn into a massive pile of shit and she found Steve Fleming at the controls.

The morning she meets the man himself starts out rather nice. She gets in early for a meeting and midway through, her phone buzzes. Not unusual. There’s a text waiting for her. She’s missed Malcolm’s arrival and he tells her he is expecting Fleming later that morning. He’s been sent by their lord and master to be briefed. “Show the pissbag straight in,” Malcolm writes. “Also, let’s install some stairs I can shove him down and break his fucking neck.” She chuckles quietly to herself.

She hurries back to her desk afterward, wanting to have time to get Malcolm a coffee and also maybe a little morbidly curious to see Steve Fleming in the flesh. Sam stops short when she sees a trio of oranges sitting on her desk. Frowning in confusion, she picks up one of them and examines it. They each look a little different. _Different kinds?_

A thought registers in her mind. _Oh_ , she thinks. She taps her computer awake a little anxiously and checks her email. One among the mass has no subject. She clicks it open.

_First month was citrus._

_M x_

Her heart squeezes. She swallows and re-reads the email several times before she clicks away from it. Her face is warm and an urge to save the fruit rather than eat it wells up in her. Picking one up again she smiles rather stupidly at it and brings it to her lips. It smells sweet and fresh. She whispers a promise into the peel then carefully sets it back down and types out a reply.

_Thanks. You didn’t need to share. Can’t wait to try them. They smell amazing._

_S x_

There. Simple but heartfelt. It would do. It would also let him know she’d returned from her meeting. Sam stows the oranges safely away and goes to fetch him his coffee, schooling her face into a neutral expression. When she enters his office he’s in the midst of a shouting match on the phone and pauses only to mouth a thank you to her for depositing a very, very black coffee on the desk. As she’s shutting the door behind her a short balding man appears in front of her.

“Oh! Good morning,” she says pleasantly.

“Good morning, I’m here to see…” his eyes pass over her for a moment and he licks his lips, “Mr. Malcolm Tucker.” Sam is very good at standing her ground but it’s only from years of practice that she fights off the knee-jerk reaction to recoil. Having finally put a face with the name she discovers Malcolm is, as usual, correct: Eyes like a brain dead but still psychotic shark. Voice like a creepy uncle. Mustache that you would expect to see on a pedophile and the demeanor to match.

Before Fleming can say anything else to her Malcolm bellows, “Steven! I haven’t got all fuckin’ day!” He swings into view. “So if you’ve finished puttin’ my assistant off her breakfast perhaps you’d like to come in.”

Fleming doesn’t budge at first, his eyes still fixed on her, then he shuffles past them both and into the office. Eyes wide, Malcolm stares at her in concern. She shakes her head. _I’m fine, don’t worry_. The glare on his face is fierce as he closes the door.

Their meeting is short and troublingly free of any loud strings of cursing. Soon enough Fleming goes clomping back down the hall with a smile that makes her stomach churn. When she goes in to bring Malcolm a fresh cup of coffee, she slips him some chocolate biscuits. His eyes shine at her in thanks and Sam forces away a blush.

 

* * *

 

After that, Steve Fleming is around far too often for anyone’s comfort, especially hers. He meets with Malcolm regularly, either officially or simply to tell him to his face how much the PM likes that he’s putting things in “ship shape.” This means Malcolm is not only in a foul mood even more frequently but also that she is often playing host to Fleming while he waits for Malcolm to return from this or that.

One of the many things everyone took for granted about Malcolm was you always knew where you stood. Of course, that was fairly easy to guess because where just about everyone stood was firmly in the camp of “I hate you and fuck off.” People were scared of Malcolm, sure; his anger and ferocity were the stuff of legend. Grown ass ministers often looked like they would piddle on the carpet when Malcolm approached them.

Malcolm was terrifying but Fleming was...unsettling. There was something deeply wrong with the man. He smiled and handed out compliments like someone who had slipped heroin into the candy. Then he would fly into a rage so unexpectedly you were never sure what set him off.

Late one afternoon he comes to gloat about the PM selecting him alone to go on the world tour. Sam knows this already and is just prepping a set of briefs when Fleming visits.

“Hello, sweetheart,” a sickly sweet voice says. She looks up to see him creeping towards her desk. “I see Malcolm is away yet again. One _wonders_ what he gets up to.”

“Hello, Mr. Fleming,” she says, standing. She doesn’t like the thought of him looking down at her. “He’ll be back very soon. If you’d like to wait in his office I can bring you some tea, or coffee if you would prefer.” She gestures him towards Malcolm’s door but he instead steps further into her space.

“Oh no, no, I’ll be just fine waiting here.” He smiles as if letting her in on a secret.

Sam’s polite smile in reply is brief. She tries again. “I can send him a message to tell him you’re waiting if you’d just like to-”

“I can make myself comfortable right here,” he says, leaning against her desk. She nods, lost at what else to do. His eyes do not look away from her and there’s something in his gaze that she doesn’t like. He keeps smiling at her. She thinks of moving past him and into Malcolm’s office to either get away herself or get him away. But Fleming turns so he is squarely between her and door. With the wall behind her and him in front, she is trapped in. She feels her uneasiness double. Then-

“SAM!”

As always she hears Malcolm before she sees him. It’s a very welcome sound.

“Sam!” the customary second call is closer and she can hear his quick footsteps. Fleming looks almost excited.

She has no qualms about flattening anyone who crowds her. Has done it on more than one occasion in this very spot. But this isn’t a junior minister or some sleazy press packer. This man is increasingly holding her boss’ fate, her friend’s fate, in his meaty paws.

“Sam! What the fuck are you-” Malcolm comes into view and immediately his face drops into a sneer. He takes in the scene before him and for once he hesitates. Fleming seizes the chance to get the first word in.

“Ah Malcolm! I wanted a quick word,” he says, a disgustingly smug look on his face as he straightens.

Malcolm looks at her and points over the shorter man’s head to her desk. “Are those my messages?” He maneuvers himself into the small space between Sam and Fleming, forcing the man to take a few steps back to avoid a shoulder in the nose. Malcolm picks up the small stack of papers that are indeed his messages and begins to flip through them, seemingly unbothered that his other shoulder is inches in front of her chest. He’s much closer than Fleming was but Sam feels herself start to relax. She glances between him and Fleming. An instant of confusion passes over the other man’s face.

“I’d like to talk with you about Tom’s world tour,” he continues, a little less haughty than before.

“Oh you would, eh?” Malcolm replies, still entirely focused on his messages. “And you needed to harass my assistant in the fucking process?” He cocks his head toward Fleming and Sam is unnerved to see how little Fleming recoils.

“Just waiting, like usual, for you to return from wherever you disappear off to,” he says smoothly.

“It’s called doing my fucking job, you ought to try it sometime,” Malcolm fires back, turning his back to her so he can face Fleming dead on. “That is if you’re not too busy paying rent boys to stroke your ‘stache.”

“Ha ha, very funny, Malcolm, very funny.” Fleming waggles one finger. “Now that we’ve gotten your usual nastiness out of the way perhaps we can discuss this world tour hmmm?

“Yeah? And what is there to discuss exactly?” Malcolm doesn’t budge from his place in front of Sam.

“Mmmmm,” Fleming says, finally gliding towards Malcolm’s office. “Some things to clear up before Tom and I fly off.” He gestures with his hand in case Malcolm didn’t understand what flying meant then saunters deeper into the office and out of sight.

Malcolm turns back to her quickly, concern immediately apparent on his face. He is about to ask her something but she waves it off. They’re both aware of their proximity to the office door. “It’s fine,” she says. “What did you need?”

He waits a few beats, as if making sure she’s alright, then says, “Doesn’t matter. We can talk after the balding twat has gone.” He flashes her a quick smile that makes her, at last, relax completely. She smiles back. They hold themselves in the moment even as Malcolm backs up to his door. With a regretful last look, he sighs heavily and goes into his office as if heading into battle.

 

* * *

 

 A few days later Fleming and the PM strap on their thongs and fly off together and Malcolm is left to manage things. Or rather, he’s left to be pulled around like a marionette on very long strings.

Sam knows everyone else will only see the anger. Malcolm is infamous for responding with fire and brimstone. It’s the way of things. But underneath all of that is something Malcolm keeps tightly locked away and for good reason. The lot in these hallways sensed weakness faster than lions on the hunt and they would devour you whole. Malcolm knows that better than anyone. So at all costs, he hides what’s lurking beneath.

Fear.

She knows he’s worried about what poison Fleming will drip into the PM’s ear when there is no one there to intervene because she’s worried about it too. In their absence, Malcolm loads his calendar with opportunities to prove his continued worth. She can’t help feeling incredibly sad that the man who has saved the party from themselves time and again is now cobbling together his own life raft before he’s tossed to the sharks.

Which is how he finds himself trapped at DOSAC for a day.

When he comes in that morning he’s already distracted but says nothing about why. He leaves for DOSAC and within minutes, it seems, she sees the report come up on her computer. “Nicola Murray Staging a Leadership Bid.” She laughs before catching herself. Things go from bad to worse rather quickly so she is unsurprised to get a text from Malcolm telling her he has instituted a lockdown at DOSAC.

All told her day is uneventful though she keeps a close eye on the news reports online. When Nicola heads to her car she knows this plan is all Malcolm and her heart starts to lighten. He’s managed to fix yet another DOSAC fuck up. Then Nicola says the PM is the “right man for the moment” and Sam hangs her head. Somewhere in Spain she imagines Steve Fleming is grinning.

In years past, days like this usually involved a barrage of texts from Malcolm. Instructions on things to handle in his absence and replies to her questions. Most of all, a behind the scenes play by play that got funnier as the day wore on. Today she gets very little of the anything, which only deepens her concern. She can get along fine without directions (she’s quite good at her job, thank you very much) and any questions can wait until tomorrow. But his lack of communication makes it feel like he’s pulling away. Trying to win the war without any allies.

Late in the day a text finally comes through. “Nicola neutralized but sadly still breathing. Headed back. Don’t wait up.”

She does.

She catches up on a bit of filing and restocks the pantry and her own personal cache of goodies for her boss’ sweet tooth. She is just walking back to her desk when he barrels past to his office. He catches her eye briefly and there’s something about the look he gives her that tells Sam his fatigue isn’t just from being locked inside DOSAC all day. She sits at her desk and waits several minutes before rising again. The door to his office is closed but not latched. Still, she hesitates.

It’s past the end of the day for most everyone. Only a few bodies left dragging themselves around. She mindlessly hovers around her desk before grabbing a notepad and a small pack of papers. Then she knocks softly on his door. When there’s no reply, she pushes it open. He’s slumped in his chair, his back to the door. Lost in thought or frustration or stewing in anger or simply hiding away so no one will see him in such a state. So she won’t see.

“Malcolm?” she calls quietly, not wanting to scare him.

His head cocks in her direction.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice shattered. Something inside of her twists, wounded by whatever has wounded him.

She doesn’t reply, just sits down in the chair across from him, sets the papers on the edge of his desk and starts in on some notes. There is no question if he is watching her or not but she keeps her eyes down.

“Sam?”

“Hmmm?” she says, nonchalantly. Nothing unusual going on here. A long pause stretches between them. She doesn’t look up.

“You can fuckin’ knock it off. I don’t need…” he waves at her but Sam doesn’t finish the thought for him.

Instead, she says, a little sharply, “What?” Malcolm was often impossible but never more so than when he thought it was him versus the entire world. She refused to stand anywhere but right fuckin’ next to him.

“I’m fine.”

“Great,” she says, frowning like she’s trying to figure out something written on her paper. “Me too.”

“I know what the fuck you’re doing.” There’s no accusation in the statement. Only weariness.

“Good.” She moves on to the next paper in her pile. “Then let me.”

It’s not a matter of fooling him. Sam knows there’s no chance of that and they had long since passed the time when she would’ve even tried. It was just waiting him out. She keeps her eyes on her work until she hears him turn away again. Then she lets out a quiet breath of relief.

How long had they been having evenings like this together? She wasn’t sure. Though it’s only been a handful of years sometimes it felt like there was never a time when she wasn’t with Malcolm.

That thought had never bothered her, really, even if this reality wasn’t the one she had pictured when she applied for the job.

She had just needed the money, simple as that. When she'd arrived for the interview, she witnessed a rather public bollocking and was mildly terrified when the screaming man was the one who called her in.

She was qualified enough, though she had never worked in politics before, but thinking back it was probably other things that landed her the job. How she didn’t flinch at Malcolm’s language even if a part of her was panicking at being on the receiving end of such anger. How she looked him in the eye. How she genuinely laughed at really a very dumb joke. The way the longer they talked in the interview the more calm he seemed to become. Like he was breathing in her quiet composure. She liked that feeling.

Within a week they found a natural rhythm with one another. They flowed together, sometimes orbiting one another, sometimes crossing, sometimes linking together. She’d been an assistant before but this was different. This was like...a partnership. She liked that feeling too.

In his office now Sam keeps jotting down notes to give her hands something to do. With him turned away she steals glances at him and feels her sadness turn to sorrow. There’s an unnatural tiredness chiseled into his posture. Like his very soul was weary.

She had not questioned him when he had puppet mastered his way into Tom’s regime. But she wonders now if he regrets it. If it was worth whatever he had to do.

His old office, before Tom, had been huge. The high ceiling, the massive desk, room to spare and then some. When they would eat dinner together in that office they usually ended up on his sofa, a defined amount of space between them. A lot of things had been different then. Malcolm had been nearly indestructible. He’d had Jamie there to be his deputy and his attack dog. Losing the Motherwell mongrel hurt him far more than he would ever let on.

Under Tom’s reign, everything for Malcolm had shrunk. Moments like this were when she saw it the most. Hatred for the PM surged in her. The disloyal coward. Malcolm was killing himself over this job, wringing out his life’s blood to do their master’s bidding. Day after day she saw it eating away at him, bit by bit, like a cloud of acid rain hovering over him slowly dripping.

Sam knew what everyone thought of Malcolm. They hated him. Worse, they didn’t even respect him anymore. They all cursed him, probably kept voodoo dolls of him in their desk and loved sticking it with needles. They told him he was cancer killing them all. Until the minute something was wrong. Then suddenly they needed him.

How many times had a minister called him in a panic because somebody had gotten ahold of a scandal or fuck up that would ruin their career? Or the PM demanded he patch up the wreckage after someone else’s Class 5 shitstorm? They didn’t care how he did it, just the results. They wanted to keep themselves in government, keep passing their policies, keep currying favor with the public and the press. It was his job to make that all happen, all at once, without fail. They expected him to be a miracle man they could throw at any situation and he would have the right weapons up his sleeves to decapitate the problem. Never mind it wasn’t just one monster fuck up at a time but a fucking horde.

And if he couldn’t fix it? If his magic fucking wand ran out of spells to piece things back together? If he was unable to move Everest the minute it was asked of him? If he couldn’t change the trajectory of the party in a heartbeat? Then they hated him even more. They wanted him to be infallible, undefeated, and at the same time they hated him for seeking the very perfection they demanded. 

Her eyes pass over him carefully in a way she would never allow herself to do if he were looking. He looks utterly wrecked. It made her heart ache. The urge to go to him, comfort him, is unbearable. Sam wants to pull him physically away from the sewage he’s drowning in. What would it be like to run her fingers along the side of his face? Could she ease his frown? Smooth away the frustration? If she held him, could she lift the weight from his shoulders? Smother everything tearing him apart simply by wrapping him in her arms? She wants to find out. She wants to try.

But she holds back.

They both have their burdens.

A great sigh heaves out of him and he rubs his hands over his face roughly. Sam has stopped writing completely. “Fuck this,” he says so quietly she isn’t sure what he’s talking about at first. He turns towards her, eyes still downcast and laces his fingers together to lean on. “Fuck this day and fuckin’ DOSAC. Can’t even manage to order a fuckin’ pizza without shitting all over it.”

He looks up then and catches her watching him. Holds her gaze. “Let’s get something to eat. Come on, my treat.” He stands abruptly to hand her several bills.

“What do you feel like?” she asks as she accepts the money.

Another heavy sigh. “Surprise me,” he says.

Burgers and fries seems a terribly American way to cope with the stress of the day but he’d given her free choice and Sam has been craving a cheeseburger lately. Every place they order from tends to hop to rather quickly simply because of the address. Burger Palace was hardly an exception. Within a handful of minutes she meets the deliveryman at the proper door and hands over the payment and a very generous tip.

The bag alone smells incredible. She carries it and a special treat back down the hallways and through a frankly ridiculous number of doors noting she and Malcolm seemed to truly be on their own now. She doesn’t quite smother her smile.

Returning to his office she finds the door ajar even though she knows she latched it on her way out, so she doesn’t bother knocking first. Malcolm is still at his desk, head on his hands, eyes closed. She resists yet another urge to comfort him. Instead she sets a cup down on his desk.

“Here, brought you something.”

Malcolm raises his head and looks first at her, then at her present, reaching for it automatically. “You’re a fuckin’ mind reader, lass.” He takes a long drink of the thick chocolate milkshake and that alone seems to clear away some of the tensions in him. A contented moan rumbles out of him. She giggles and grabs her same chair from earlier.

Before she can sit he motions her over to the small round table in the corner so she shifts to the far chair sitting there. She leaves her poor pretense of work sitting on the edge of his desk. As usual the table is coated in papers even though she had spent the night of his birthday tidying up. She shakes her head and makes quick work of that, clearing just the space they need as he joins her, taking the seat with the best view of the TV.

Burgers are divided up but they share the fries. Much to Sam’s amusement, he mostly dips his into his shake anyway. She can’t help eying him affectionately when he’s too engrossed in his ice cream to notice.

They talk very little though he lets slip a few other details about his day at DOSAC. He also mentions the PM has requested a meeting with him. She isn’t entirely sure if that’s a good thing or not despite the hope in Malcolm’s tone.

The news is thankfully uneventful as the Nicola Murray fervor has died away almost as quickly as it came to life. Truly a wasted day. She lets Malcolm alone as he’s likely wondering what could’ve and should’ve gone differently. How much he will be saddled with the blame. He’s hardwired to think this way. What would happen if he stopped?

She lets her mind drift back to weeks ago and the feel of him wrapped around her. Sam had tried not to think about it too closely for fear of where those thoughts might lead her. Even if, in quiet moments like this, she knew exactly where that would be.

Now though, seeing him drained yet again, bordering on some drastic measure most likely, she couldn’t help remembering the way he had relaxed into her embrace. His heartbeat against her chest. The rough fabric of his coat in contrast to the soft skin of his jaw where it slid along her cheek. He was composed of far fewer sharp edges than he would have anyone believe. She thinks she might be the only one who knows better.

She had not expected things would change between them after that night and they largely hadn’t. Then again maybe the trio of oranges she had slowly savored begged to differ. As did the way she occasionally caught him looking at her. Had he always looked at her that way? She could no longer be sure.

“I’m thinking of going on holiday.” He says it so quietly and with his eyes fixed on the TV but it breaks her out of her reverie rather harshly.

She freezes, still staring at him. In her mind, she knows her response should be neutral but what comes out is, “But you never go on holiday.”

Before she can backtrack Malcolm turns his head towards her. “Well then I’d say I’m fucking due, right?” Something isn’t right with his voice. She waits a few beats to see if he’s just having her on. When he doesn’t say anything else, she rises. That gets his attention.

“Sam?” he says in concern, sitting up in his seat.

She retrieves her notepad from his desk and retakes her seat. She scoots closer and swivels to face him with pen and paper at the ready. He angles towards her. Their knees just brush one another.

“Ok,” she says matter of factly, her brisk tone hopefully covering for her impertinence before. “Where do you want to go? I can have everything booked in a few days.”

“No,” he says suddenly, motioning to her with one hand. “I don’t need you to book my fucking holiday, Sam.”

“Oh come on,” she says. “It’s not like I haven’t done it-” She catches herself. They both know Malcolm has never taken an actual holiday since she’s known him. An uncomfortable feeling settles in her stomach. They both look away. She hurries to fill the silence.

“You could visit your mum,” she says, looking down again and already making notes.

“Sam-”

“You always talk about it and never do.”

“Sam, don’t-”

“But if you’re thinking a real holiday then maybe-”

He lays a hand over hers and stops her. She looks at his long pale fingers easily covering her hand and swallows down a catch in her throat. Straightening, she meets his eyes again. He’s smiling warmly at her but there’s sadness behind it. She knows there is. She can always tell.

“Sam,” he says, his voice hushed and gentle. “Stop.”

She looks at him, searches his face and knows beyond any doubt he’s hiding something. That doesn’t bother her so much. He usually was. She was used to it. But she can’t be sure what it is this time or why he was being secretive. He had always kept her from the worst of his dealings but this doesn’t feel like that. Her heart pounds. She desperately wants to ask him what is really wrong.

“Malcolm-” A light squeeze of her fingers cuts her off.

“Don’t worry, love,” he says softly. “It’ll be alright.”

They hold one another’s gaze. She thinks again about his fingers splayed against her back, the warmth of her enough for them both, and wants more than ever to pull him to her. Let the worry flutter away even for just a moment. Or take his hand in hers and squeeze his fingers back. Let him know he isn’t alone and doesn’t have to be. He has her.

But she’s frozen under the gentle pressure of his hand until he lets go and resettles in his seat. He turns away from her to concentrate on the TV. Sam stays facing him and lets herself take him in a few moments longer.

“The news cycle is starting again,” he says with a nod at the TV, his voice too close to normal for her liking. Covering up.

“Yeah,” she says thickly and faces the TV. He doesn’t reply.

The rest of the night passes in silence.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested, Malcolm and Sam really do sign with an [ "x" ](http://youmustknowgatsby.tumblr.com/post/34653706094/i-finally-got-the-missing-dosac-files-this-book)


	3. Sam: The Sack Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended viewing for Chapter 3: Season 3, Episode 7

True to his word Malcolm does not let her plan any part of his holiday. Over the next couple of weeks he keeps very much to himself. She stays on top of her work, like always, but keeps a closer eye on him. She does not like what she sees.

They interact very little and then almost exclusively for the everyday formalities they cannot avoid. Sign this paper, call this person, here are your messages. The banality of it all eats away at her. In group meetings, she can’t catch his eye to smirk privately at the idiocy of their coworkers. A scowl seems permanently affixed to his drawn face. They stop having dinner together.

On a Friday he leaves uncharacteristically early to get a “head start” on his holiday. When he stops by on his way out, she’s snacking on sweet blueberries, savoring each one. Earlier she had returned to her desk to find one of her coffee mugs had been filled with berries. It had replaced the concern in her heart with joy even if only for a little while.

“So you like them then?” he says suddenly. Probably he hopes to startle her just a bit but that hasn’t worked since week two. She thinks he gets as much a thrill from trying as he does from failing.

Sam nods slowly and can’t help but smile a little at his enthusiasm. “I thought the delivery came at the beginning of each month,” she says, motioning towards the mug.

He delicately takes a berry for himself and pops it into his mouth. “It does.”

She shakes her head, not following. He steals another berry and shifts his feet around. “They weren’t quite ripe yet,” he says finally. “I thought I better fucking wait ‘til they actually tasted good. And they do.” He chews the second berry, his eyes sparkling in a way that makes her smile a little wider. There have been so few moments like this lately. She didn’t realize how much she has missed them. Missed him.

“Anyway,” he says, breaking the silence and frustratingly bringing them back into the present. “I’m off to start my holiday. No point in you stickin’ around either so just fuck off home, yeah? Get an early start on your weekend.”

She doesn’t say anything but smiles tightly in reply. By the way he glances at her one last time before leaving, his eyes as full of sadness now as they were of mirth just a moment ago, she thinks he knows what all this is doing to her. But he still leaves without another word.

She stays another hour if only to keep her mind occupied on something other than whatever Malcolm is actually doing and wherever he is actually going. Only in the pressing darkness of her flat that night does Sam admit she was hoping he might need to come back for something. Or might want to.

 

* * *

 

On Monday, Fleming stops by on some fabricated excuse that he barely tries to conceal. “So Malcolm Tucker has truly gone on holiday, has he?” he asks her.

“Yes, Mr. Fleming, Malcolm is away but he should be back next week.”

“Hmmm,” the balding man says as he strokes his mustache thoughtfully. “And where did you say he’s gone off to?”

She smiles politely. “On holiday. He didn’t specify where.”

Fleming opens his mouth to say something else when the phone rings and she’s able to put him off by answering it. He ambles away with that horrible pleasant look on his face she’s grown to hate. There are several calls and emails, even a few people stopping by, asking more or less the same questions Fleming did. No one can quite believe Malcolm has indeed voluntarily taken time off. The notion that no one actually does believe it is one she tries very hard not to think about.

She gets far fewer emails and calls on Tuesday inquiring about Malcolm’s whereabouts. The news of his holiday has made the rounds by now. No one comes to gawk at his office like a sideshow attraction. There is never any shortage of work, whether Malcolm was in his office or not, so she is not bored. She organizes and files, answers emails and sets up appointments for when her boss returns and pushes off unwanted solicitations. She waits all day for an email, a text, a voicemail that never comes. She finishes the last of the blueberries.

Clearing up in his office that night her mind on nothing particular, she suddenly winces. Her breath stutters in her throat. A sharp pain had rushed through the center of her chest. Sam places a tentative hand over the spot but the pain is already gone. She looks around the office, as if for some a culprit, and spies her phone balancing on Malcolm’s desk. No pockets on her skirt to slip it into and she needed two hands to straighten things up. The screen is blank, no missed notifications. The phone feels heavy in her hand. She brings up Malcolm’s info and begins a text. Then erases it. Thinks for several long seconds and types again, careful with her words.

_Office too quiet without you here. Not nearly enough swearing. And I’m out of berries. S x_

She reads and re-reads the short three sentences, her finger hovering over the send button. Finally, she presses it, then gathers her things and heads home.

Late into the night, she paces around her flat, picking up her phone only to set it back down. _Malcolm knows how to take care of himself_ , she thinks on repeat. Except... She pauses on her fifth loop through the kitchen. Arms crossed, she stares at her mobile sitting on the counter. Bounces a little in indecision. If he would just send her something. A message about the shitty weather in Ibiza or Minister Cuntface looked like an inbred donkey on the nightly news or “please re-stock the supply of chocolate biscuits.” _Anything_. Whatever. Just something to let her know he was alright.

Far past when she should’ve already been asleep, she is still getting ready for bed. Slowly. Waiting to be interrupted. Still nothing. Sitting crossed-legged on her bed she confirms the text sent. Frustration weaving with worry, she types out a second one.  

_Call if you need to. Even if you don’t. S xx_

She waits up a little while longer. Hours later, when her mind gives up and drifts into unconsciousness, there is still no reply.

She’s isn’t sure how long she sleeps but in the deepest of night, she’s pulled from a black dream by a dim pinging. She reaches blindly for her phone and blinks at the screen. The stones stacked on her chest tumble off.  

_Sorry about the berries. Fuckers should’ve sent more.  M x_

_I know. I will. M xx_

He doesn’t.

But he does text her. And email. He asks for brief summaries of the days, which she gladly sends him. He messages backs with things like, “Has Fleming’s mustache declared independence from his fat bulbous nose?” and “Tell Nicola to stop making her dresses out of fucking lampshades.”

On Sunday he texts her he’s extended his holiday an extra day so he’ll be back in on Tuesday. A prickle of concern rises in her but she lets it go. _One more day_ , she tells herself.

It’s a long day.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning, good morning, good morning,” he says cheerfully as he breezes into his office Tuesday morning. She smiles properly for the first time in over a week. He does look rather refreshed even if his line about Easter Island is complete crap. It still makes her laugh and she’s glad to see him smiling too. For just an instant there’s an urge to hug him in relief. Regretfully, she squashes it.

She feels terrible for needing to ruin his renewed outlook by pointing out Andy Murray’s website. But she smiles all the wider when he calls for his horse. Whatever he did has put him in a good mood. That’s all that matters to her.

The day passes as though it’s normal but the more she listens and looks the more she feels something stirring in the air. Staffers keep zipping past talking in hushed voices with one another. More than once she passes Fleming and Lord Nicholson having what is clearly a private conversation. Malcolm is continually mounting his horse and galloping off to DOSAC and intuition tells her something is off. If he senses it too, he says nothing. Every time he passes her he smiles brightly. By the end of the day, she finds she can’t truly reply in kind.

Wednesday. Malcolm is all over every paper. That something in the air goes sour quickly, like milk spoiling overnight. The brightness in his face from 24 hours ago is thoroughly erased. He can’t shake off Fleming anywhere. The man has attached himself like a leech.

In the afternoon, Malcolm goes off to brief the press. Far too quickly she spies reporters rushing around the hallways. Knowing they should still be in the briefing, she hurries back to her desk to see what breaking story she has missed. Maybe Andy Murray is part of the crime stats now?

Two men linger near her desk. They are just far enough away she should pay them no mind but more than once she catches them glancing at her. On instinct, she picks up her phone to message Malcolm. Mid-text, she stops. If something had happened he would’ve told her, right? She sets the phone down.

Not a minute later her desk phone rings. Recognizing the number she breathes a sigh of relief. She stands up and turns her back to the still-hovering men and answers. Malcolm’s voice on the other end is strained. 

“Sam, get ahold of Pat right-” The line cuts off.

“Malcolm?” She looks at the phone in her hand then to her desk. One of the men is holding down the call button. “What are you-”

“Miss Cassidy,” the other man interrupts. He is holding her cell phone. “Lord Nicholson would like you to please come with us.”

“I’m sorry?” She is still holding her desk phone in one hand. She takes a step away from the men but there is nowhere to go.

“Lord Nicholson has asked us to have you wait for him in the office,” the first man says, his finger continuing to press the call button. “He will come to meet with you shortly.”

“This is- I don’t understand.”

The second man loses his patience. He reaches up and grabs the phone from her limp fingers and sets it in the receiver. “Please come sit down,” he says, his tone no longer polite. He gestures roughly towards Malcolm’s office.

She glances between them and then slowly walks the few paces into her boss’ lair. The men maneuver her to the chair she’d sat in weeks ago pretending to do work just to keep Malcolm company. She sits. Placated, the second man pockets her cell phone and pulls out his own to send a text. He gets a reply almost straight away and nods at his cohort.

“Did Lord Nicholson say what he wanted?” she asks, trying to keep her tone friendly. As if there is not a lump of lead settling into her stomach.

“He’s just asked you wait for him here. I’m sure everything will be clear very soon.” The men grin at one another almost cruelly, in on some sick joke. She sits up straighter.

Outside the office, she can hear a lot of voices and feet moving quickly. The near desperation in Malcolm’s voice minutes ago comes rushing back to her. She goes to stand but a large hand on her shoulder stops her. Before she can protest, the door opens and Lord Nicholson steps in.

“Ah, Miss Cassidy, excellent,” he says, raising one one finger in the air like he’s thought of something clever. “As you no doubt have realized we will be needing your assistance in tidying things up a bit. Collecting files, putting together a packet of past and present, uh, goings-on. That sort of thing.” Lord Nicholson chuckles. The man was always amusing himself and only himself.

“You’ll need to provide Steven with whatever he may need. You understand, of course.” He pauses to let her reply. She holds very still, her breath caught in her chest.

Lord Nicholson presses on. “We will also want to speak with you about this inquiry I’m booting up. We will want your  _full_ cooperation. And, uh, after such a time, we can discuss your...staying on.”

He looks at her expectantly. The truth of what he’s really saying slams home. Tears spring to her eyes even as she tries to hold them back. These men don’t deserve to see her cry.

“Lord Nicholson,” she says, prying the words from her mouth. “I apologize, but I don’t understand.”

“Uh, did you not...,” he asks his men, gesturing between them and herself. “Ah I see,” he continues, chuckling again. “Just a cheeky little oversight. Um…” He clears his throat as though preparing for an announcement, drawing himself up importantly. “Malcolm is no more. He’s resigned, effective immediately. In fact, I suspect he’s being shoved out the servant’s door as we speak.”

“About fuckin’ time,” the man behind her sneers. His partner snorts gleefully. He says something in reply but she can’t hear him because even as Lord Nicholson’s words register she still cannot make sense of what is happening or where Malcolm is. The fear and anxiety that has been welling up inside her since Malcolm had taken her hand in this very office just weeks ago finally spill over.

Lord Nicholson steps away as though afraid her tears might burn him. Sensing weakness, his lackeys circle nearer. They press in on her from what feels like all sides and she knows what they’re doing and hates that it’s working. One of them starts to ask something but finally she hears what she’s been waiting for.

An angry Scottish voice comes from not far outside the office. She can’t make out the words. He’s loud and frantic and for some reason it makes her cry even more. She badly wants him to come here and tell her everything is alright and let her sweep him into her arms and deliver them both from this awful shithole. She wants to see his face and know the worst has not happened, that Fleming has not won.

But she knows it’s not the truth. The game Fleming has been playing since the day he arrived, maybe even since the day Malcolm made him leave, has finally ended in his own victory.  Even as much as she wants and needs to see Malcolm, she silently begs him not to walk in that door. It’ll only make it worse. Lord Nicholson’s men loom over her like hyenas. Her tears blur their faces until they look demonic. A sob escapes her. Malcolm’s voice is at the door.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 coming soon!


	4. Malcolm: The Sack Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to duckodeathreturns on tumblr for their excellent research into the layout of [Malcolm's office](http://duckodeathreturns.tumblr.com/post/139753149498/super-random-but-given-youre-extensive-ttoi). Couldn't have done these chapters without your help!
> 
> Recommended viewing for Chapter 4: Season 3, Episodes 7 and 8

As a boy, Malcolm and his family had traveled to visit his Uncle Angus. Early one morning his uncle roughly shook him awake and took him out into the woods. Never one for following the law, Uncle Angus had an array of illegal traps. More efficient, he explained. All it needed was pressure in the right place and it would snap. They crouched in the bushes watching small wildlife just skirt the hidden trap. Then a fox came.

The fox was curious and careful but got too close. The trap clamped onto its leg and immediately the animal began to thrash. It wailed and blood streamed down its leg. Uncle Angus was saying something but Malcolm couldn’t hear him. He turned away and vomited. After that, he was hauled back to the house and made to lie down while his mother walloped Uncle Angus with a wooden spoon.

For weeks afterward, Malcolm would stare outside and try to imagine what that fox must’ve felt. The kind of pain it was in.

When he steps into his office, Steve Fleming gleefully trailing behind him, he finally understands.

“Out of the way!” He shoves forward, his eyes set on Sam. His mind is whirring. She shouldn’t be here. He wanted her as far away from all of this as possible. What the fuck was she doing here?

“Hey! What are you doing to her? Don’t worry,” he says quickly, his hand resting on the back of her chair. He starts to tell her to go home, get out and leave everything to him but Julius’ men press in again.

“Just go- leave her fucking alone!” He leans towards them threateningly and the men back off.

He looks back at Sam just in time to catch her sideways glance at him. Her eyes are filled with tears. “It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright,” he says, desperate to reassure her. “Don’t worry.”

There are a thousand things demanding attention in his mind, every escape idea fighting to be chosen, but all he keeps thinking is _Sam is crying_. His fingers brush her shoulder and he can feel her shaking. Metal teeth dig further into his heart. Among the blackness oozing out is a single thin line of red.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Malcolm takes a step between Sam and the men, puffing his chest protectively. He lets his hand fall away. “Julius, get these fuckers out of here before I massacre the lot of them!”

One suit snorts derisively.

“Yeah, I’ll start with you,” he says, jabbing a finger at the prick that had been looming in front of Sam. “I’ll rip out your fuckin’ eyes, shove them your down fuckin’ throat so you can watch as I fuckin’ _pull_ your intestines out through your fuckin’ cock!”

From his hiding spot in the corner Nicholson looks up. “Really Malcolm-”

“Get them the fuck out of here!” Something in him is quickly becoming unhinged. A new type of manic concern is bubbling up. In his mind all he can see is Sam surrounded by these goons, her tearstained face, the hurt in her eyes when she glanced at him. His breathing borders on savage. The line of red is swirling over his vision, making everything bleed. He begins to surge forward.

A hand touches his wrist lightly. So gentle and yet it stops him.

“Malcolm.” Her voice nearly ruins him. She barely manages to say his name without it cracking. On instinct his fingers curl to touch hers and he turns back to her.

He has only seen Sam cry once before. It had been for him then too. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says frantically. He doesn’t know how to continue. Fleming has disappeared. He glances at Julius and notes he and his two toadies have backed away. He crouches in front of Sam never losing contact with her hand.

Their eyes meet and it takes everything in him to not brush the tears from her cheeks.

“Don’t worry,” he says again, his voice strained and hushed. “It’s alright. Just do whatever they say, yeah?”

Sam brings her other hand on top of theirs and clutches him tighter. He can see she doesn’t know what to say either. And in that moment he wishes he could sweep her into his arms and fly them both away and never return. But he would never be the one with wings.

“I’ll be okay,” he says because they both need to hear him say it even if he has no idea if it’s true. Malcolm searches her face for some sign. He can see her doing the same to him.

Finally she nods. She lifts one hand off of his and wipes away her tears. Fresh ones do not fall. She swallows. 

“Okay,” she says, nodding again. He squeezes her hand quickly then lets go. Her eyes follow him as he rises before he turns to collect his coat and scarf and hunt down Fleming. He doesn’t dare look back.

 

* * *

 

The front door closes behind him and he can hear the assholes on the other side still shouting his name. He wants to take a moment to collect himself but instead Malcolm strides into the sitting room. Mark is still perched on the settee glancing out of the window.

“Get down, Mark,” he says, a little too harshly. His nephew whips around and sheepishly clambers off.

“Sorry, Uncle Malc.”

He sighs and shuts his eyes a moment. “It’s fine, I just don’t want the vultures puttin’ a photo of your face in the paper.”

“Malcolm?” Kara comes hurrying in the room, Ellie on her hip. The little girl instantly reaches for him but her mother swivels her away. Ellie pouts. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a long story,” he says, shaking his head. “Come on, let’s get away from the windows.” He steers Mark in front of him and ushers them all into the kitchen.

“I don’t understand, why are there a load of reporters outside?” Kara says.

“Because they want my fu- they’re here for me,” he says, trying his best to mind his language. Everyone’s eyes are on him. Kara shakes her head, still confused. He presses one hand to his forehead.

“What’s wrong, Uncle Malc?” Ellie asks. Her tone is so innocent he nearly laughs at the absurdity of it in this moment.

“Nothing, darlin’, just some problems with work.” He fixes Kara with a pointed look and she finally cottons on. She sets Ellie down.

“Mark, go on with your sister upstairs and play, alright? No looking out the windows at all.” The boy nods and takes his sister’s hand. _Sharp for a seven-year-old_ , Malcolm thinks, watching them fondly as they leave the room. _They’re good kids._

He and Kara sit and he tells her the abbreviated version of what’s happened. To her credit, she listens without interrupting him much. He knows he’s ruined their visit, their first in years. They only arrived last night. This weekend he was supposed to take them to Hyde Park. Now he was essentially telling Kara they could not leave the house for the next 48 hours at least.

“But they can’t do this,” she says indignantly. “They can’t just force you out.”

“They fucking well have. It’s already done, Kar.” He doesn’t tell her how many times he’s done almost this exact thing to ministers and staffers. How five years ago he made this same play against Steve Fleming and now it’s come full circle.

“Alright, so what are we supposed to do? The kids’ll be fine for maybe a day but they won’t last stuck in here.”

“I know.” Malcolm runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll find a flight for you for Saturday morning. We can get a car to pick you up at an off hour so you can avoid the fuckin’ parasites.” He motions at the front door. The click of cameras has subsided but he knows they’re still out there.

Kara huffs in frustration. “You’re telling me we don’t have a choice, aren’t you?”

“I’m telling you if you walk out that door they will descend on you like piranhas in a fucking feeding frenzy. I’m sorry, Kar, I didn’t mean for it to fucking happen. But the best I can do is keep you, keep the kids, from the fucking press and send you home as soon as possible.”

His sister shakes her head and rises from the table. “Fine, Malcolm.” She heads upstairs after the kids, still shaking her head. He wants to call her back and explain more but it’s fucking useless and he knows it. The poison bubbling within him has seeped out and touched his family.

Two and a half days cooped up in any house would be rough. In his own it is almost unbearable. They keep the kids entertained with videos and the telly and as many indoor activities as they can. Kara doesn’t try to help much beyond that. She explained something to the kids because they don’t ask to go outside or why their uncle can’t take them on the adventures he promised. Mark is the most disappointed and does not try to hide it. Takes after his mother that way. Only Ellie is occasionally cheery. She makes new finger paintings and pushes them into his hands.

“For you, Uncle Malc.” He puts them on the fridge. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her he can’t hang them in his office anymore. Isn’t sure he can get back the old ones either.

At dawn on Saturday morning, he peeks outside and sees only a few photographers dozing on the curb. The grey sky is as foreboding as ever. He helps Kara bundle the kids up and gather their luggage at the back door. As arranged, a town car slides into place.

As he reaches for the door handle he stops and touches Kara’s shoulder instead. “I’m sorry,” he says and means it. “I really was lookin’ forward to you being here.”

“I know, and I know you didn’t do this on purpose,” she replies. Neither of them pretend it isn’t still his fault. Kara glances at the car idling outside. She nudges Mark with her knee. “Say goodbye to your uncle.”

The boy hugs him around his middle. Malcolm pats his back. “Bye Uncle Malc.”

“Hey,” he says, dropping down to eye level. “I’m sorry we couldn’t go to the park or the museums like we planned. But next time I visit we can go anywhere you want. Alright? Your choice.”

Mark smiles a little. “Okay.” They hug again.

“My turn, my turn,” Ellie whines from above him.

He chuckles and stands up. “Come ‘ere Ellie girl.” He lifts her easily into his arms and she instantly snuggles against him.

“Bye Uncle Malc,” she says into his jumper.

“Bye darlin’. Be good for your mam on the way home.” Ellie nods against him. He squeezes her once and passes her back to Kara. “The car’ll take you straight to the airport. I’ve already taken care of the fare so you don’t need to worry.”

Kara nods too. “Take care of yourself, Malcolm. Call Gerry if you need. He might be helpful right now.”

“Yeah,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, okay.”

She smiles, pleased he’s taken her advice. She gestures with her head at his phone lying on the table. “And call Sam too.” His eyes go wide and his sister chuckles at him. “Malcolm, honestly. You should talk to her. She’s worried about you.”

“How d’you know that?” he says, a little suspicious, a little curious.

She pecks him on the cheek. “I just do. We’ll call when we’re home.”

 

 


	5. Malcolm: Falling Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to elloette for helping me sort this chapter out. A lot of headcanon and meta-ing was needed and she was absolutely indispensable. Much of this chapter is because of her <3

Sam answers on the second ring. “Malcolm. Finally.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “Hello to you-”

“Where have you been?” She takes what sounds like a steadying breath. In the relative silence of the moment, he hears some noise in the background.

“Where are you?” he asks. “What’s that-”

“Malcolm,” she interrupts. “I was really worried about you.”

He shifts uncomfortably, disliking that he’s made Sam worry, that she ever worries about him, and maybe also that some part of him is pleased she does.

“I’m really sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean for you to fret. It was just…” he tries to find the right phrasing, unsure how much he should say on the phone. “It was a bit touch and go here.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice sounds anxious.

“No, not...nothing like that. Kara and the kids were here.”

“Ohhhh. Oh Malcolm,” her tone drops. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” he says, his own voice sounding more hushed now too. “Well it’s done now and I’ve packed them into a car and they should already be on their plane so…”

He can picture Sam’s face scrunching in concern. Several seconds of silence pass between them and he again hears something else on her end of the call.

“Have you eaten lunch yet?” she asks. 

“Uh, well no. I mean there’ve been fucking press outside my house round the clock so I haven’t really been able to-”

“Good,” she cuts in. “Shut up and come open the back door.”

She clicks off and he stares stupidly at his phone before hurtling down the stairs. He just arrives at the door when he sees her silhouette and feels a ripple of excitement as he gently turns the handle.

Sam Cassidy slips inside, her arms heavy with several bags. As Malcolm relocks the door he notes the tightness in her jaw, the intensity in her gaze, and for some reason it makes his breath catch.

“Here, take these,” she says quickly, holding out the bags to him.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He hurries to help her and she sighs in relief once her arms are free. Then slugs him hard in the arm.

“Fuck! Ow!”

“Don’t drop off the radar like that!” Hands on her hips she stares him down. Fury flashes in her eyes.

“Christ, Sam!” He looks helplessly at his arm.

“Malcolm, it’s been over  _two_ days. No call, no text, no email. Not a single fucking word from you.”

“I know-”

“You’re forced out, it’s all over the fucking news-” she waves her arm dramatically- “I’ve got every hack and minister slinking around my desk and all I can think about is, ‘Is Malcolm alright? Oh I have no fucking clue because he hasn’t bothered to send so much as a fucking _smoke signal_ my way!’”

“I’m sorry!”

Sam stands there, fuming at him for a moment longer, then takes half of the bags back and heads to his kitchen. Malcolm stares after her dumbly until she motions him to follow. They unpack the bags and he finds she’s managed to restock his entire cupboard. _Brilliant woman._ He thinks of commenting on it but is afraid any word out of his mouth might result in another punch, this time to his fucking face. He rubs his arm.

“I brought sandwiches for us,” she says tersely. “Doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed at you.”

“I know.” Another long beat of silence. “But thanks,” he says carefully. He busies himself getting them something to drink while she lays out sandwiches and crisps on his table.

“Sorry about your arm,” she says after a minute. “Well, no actually, I’m not. But, still.”

“S’alright,” he says slowly. “Where the fuck d’you learn to hit like that though?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She smirks at him.

He rubs his arm thoughtfully. “I should hire you as my bodyguard instead.”

Sam scoffs as she sits at the table. “I’m far too pretty to be your bodyguard.”

“Fuckin’ right you are,” he mutters quietly then freezes. Bollocks. He’d said that out loud. Shit shit shit… He glances quickly at Sam but can’t tell if she’s heard him. Was her face flushed? He clears his throat loudly and sweeps over to the table, setting a glass in front of her.

They eat across from one another without interruption, him waiting for her signal it’s okay, they’re okay. She avoids his eyes. But at length she asks, “How long were Kara and the kids here?”

“Only a couple of days. They’d just gotten here on Tuesday night.”

Sam looks startled for a moment, frowning. She collects their empty plates, which is ridiculous because this is his house but he lets her. He isn’t sure how to act just now anyway.

“I see Ellie was busy,” Sam says. He smiles warmly.

“Yeah, she’s a sweet one.” Malcolm rises to join her at his makeshift art gallery on the fridge.

“She loves her Uncle.” Sam fixes him with a look.

He’s too busy avoiding that look and trying not to fucking blush like some adolescent ponce that he nearly misses her now unmistakably pink cheeks. She examines the paintings more closely, her shoulder turned to him, and smiles like she knows something he’s missed.

“One of those is for you, you know,” he says quietly.

“Hmmm?”

“Ellie made you a painting. The purple and blue one with the bit of green?”

Sam pulls the painting delicately from the fridge. “Really? She made this for me?”

“Of course she fuckin’ did. Girl adores you! Ever since you showed her how to cut paper snowflakes and gave her sweeties when her mum wasn’t looking.”

Sam laughs. “She even got my favorite colors in there.”

Malcolm coughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Clever girl.”

It’s just watercolors on construction paper but the way Sam holds it the thing might as well be a fucking Monet. He’s just about to quip as such when he hears her sniffle.

“Oh, Sam, no.” He hastily grabs a napkin and hands it to her. “I didn’t mean to make you fuckin’ cry!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, her voice watery. “I promised myself I wouldn’t come over here and cry. Especially after…”

Malcolm shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. It doesn’t- that’s not- I mean-”

Sam bobs her head and sniffles again into the napkin.

“It’s alright, lass.” His hands hover uselessly in front of him, unsure whether to comfort her or not. He sighs. He was no fuckin’ good at this. Helplessly he says, “Tea?”

“God ya!” She dabs at her face then breathes out a quiet laugh. “I put our favorite away in the very front.”

“On it.” He moves quickly into the kitchen and breathes himself down a bit while he waits for the kettle. He hears Sam relocate to the couch and sense she is doing much the same. When he comes in with the tea he’s calmer and her face is slightly puffy but dry.

“Thanks,” she says quietly and takes a quick sip. When her eyes are shut in the kind of bliss only a comforting cuppa can offer, he thinks to himself that she still looks far too pretty to be his bodyguard, to be his assistant, to be his friend. The warmth in his belly has nothing to do with the sip of tea he takes.

“You said the kids were only here a few days?”

“Mmm, yeah.” He sets the tea down a little too eagerly. “They’d just come in on Tuesday. Worst fucking timing possible, of course.”

“I thought-” she frowns. “I mean, isn’t that why you took your holiday? To spend time with them?”

He snorts. “Sam, we both know I didn’t take a fuckin’ holiday.”

Her jaw clenches but she says nothing. Malcolm waits for her to press him and is surprised to find he’s disappointed when she doesn’t.

They drink in silence for a minute or two and he watches her. She seems to be gathering herself for something. He braces.

“I think you should call Gerry,” she says suddenly. “He might have some good insight right now.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. “Christ, are you and Kara fucking texting each other or something?”

“No,” Sam says, chuckling. “Why?”

“She said the same thing before she left.”

“Well, you know what they say about great minds.”

He snorts again. “Yeah, well I’ve already talked with him.”

“Oh?”

He takes in her hopeful face and makes a decision. His heart twists a little.

“Had to.”

Sam blinks a few times then sets her tea down. She seems to settle in and nods at him. Maybe she’s been waiting for this confession all along.

For a moment, he’s silent and considers telling her only half the truth. It would be easy to redact; he’s already got himself half convinced. But before his mind has even chosen a direction his mouth is already spilling the entire fucking story.

The truth was he had no fucking idea what he was doing. He knew no one believed he was going on holiday. He just needed to be away. To not be at the office. He came home on Friday and plopped in front of the telly and let the night pass like that, eating his favorite shitty food and watching mind numbing television. He had lain in bed that first night convincing himself it felt nice to be doing this. Relaxing.

“That place was just crushing the fuckin’ life out of me. I thought if I could just get away for a little bit, leave it behind for just a while I could...I don’t know, set myself to rights. Try to forget about fuckin’ Fleming and the PM and whatever load of bollocks those half-assed twats called ministers were thinking up. I just needed to be away from everything to do with that fuckin’ demon pit, you know?”

Sam nods gently and lowers her eyes to her tea for a moment. Malcolm is reminded of the last time they spent this much time in each other’s company, of burgers and a shared stash of fries and a chocolate milkshake he hadn’t known he’d wanted until she set it in front of him.

“Most everything,” he amends quietly. There’s a tiny quirk of her lips. He clears his throat and continues.

He’d stayed in bed late into the morning on Saturday then dragged himself downstairs and back in front of the television. But now there was this itch in his mind he couldn’t place. Something prodding at him. He ignored it. In the afternoon an advert for some Christmas sale went across the screen.

“And of course I remembered I hadn’t fucking bought any of my presents yet,” he says dramatically.

“And of course you insist on doing it yourself even though you never have time,” Sam cuts in.

He chuckles. “Sending flowers for me is one thing but I’ll not have you picking up presents for my family. Except for the fuckers I can’t stand. And they just get a fucking fruitcake in the mail anyway.”

So he took himself around to every shop he could think of and picked up presents for everyone on the list Sam had slipped onto his desk weeks ago. Even paid to have them gift wrapped right then. It was so normal and he found himself on the verge of enjoying it.

Except.

Neon signs seemed to blink slowly out of the corner of his eye at every street. The day was dark and overcast and the colors seemed even brighter than he remembered. He’d turned his back to them again and again but they were still there.

Inviting. Enciting. Waiting.

Back home. Back to bed. Another night spent lying there. The itch in his mind turned to pressure, making old wounds crack and bleed. He waited long into the Sunday morning before rising. Decided against going back out. Tried to zone out in front of the TV one more time but he couldn’t ignore what was now whispering in his brain. That tomorrow was the start of a long week of nothing. There was nothing to stop him but himself and his will was already spent.

He'd panicked. Rummaged in one of his drawers until he found an old bottle of prescription sleeping pills. He was still so tired anyway. He could actually do with the sleep. He popped a few and laid back down and let the drugs do their work.

It was early Monday when he woke again, groggy and disoriented. The pressure had built to an almost unbearable degree. Ideas pushing at his brain, spilling into his ears. Plans, old haunts, old habits.

He had wine in the house. That wasn’t a problem. Wine had never been a trigger, of course. He liked it well enough but he didn’t want something that he liked. He wanted what he needed to stop thinking, to stop feeling. Stop being. To disappear. Sitting alone on his couch, head in his hands, right where he was sitting now with Sam, he had never wanted to disappear as badly as then. He was so fucking tired of being Malcolm Tucker.

The walk would be short. Ten minutes maybe. Fifteen there and back. His legs would be anxious on the return trip. He could feel the weight of the bottle in his hand. Remembered the cool of the glass. The smell of the Scotch. Velvet on his tongue. Sharp and smokey. He could taste it already. It would be a fucking relief. One less battle to fight.

He paced around his house. Picked up his keys more than once. Got so far as shrugging on his coat. Caught himself. Went upstairs and downed more pills and got in bed. He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes.

Here he hesitates in his story, ashamed of this part more than anything. But Sam already knows. She’s seen Gerry on his schedule a couple of times a year. In private moments with just him and Jamie, she’s heard stories about those long ago days. She dusts the untouched bottles in his office, keeping them pristine, keeping up appearances.

So he tells her.

How he’d woken up with the plan already formed. The pressure almost transformed into excitement. Anticipation.

He had the rest of the week. Plenty of time. He could drink as much as he wanted, fuck, drink all day, maybe two days. Get shitfaced and indulge and not give a flying fuck about anything and it’d be okay because no one would know and he would have time to clean himself up before work on Monday. He could walk back into that cancer ward having at least gotten some semblance of a reprieve.

Maybe that was all he needed, he'd reasoned. Maybe that was what he was supposed to do. Maybe that was why he’d chosen such an extended amount of time for his holiday. For this. The sudden realization, the acknowledgment, had made him furious.

“I fuckin’ knew, Sam,” he says, standing now, the words rushing out of him. “I knew! I didn’t even do it on purpose, but as soon as the thought was in my fucking brain I _knew_ that’s why I’d taken the time off. Can’t even take a fake holiday without an ulterior motive. Can’t even control my own thoughts for fuck’s sake.”

He growls in frustration. “Fuck, it’s been _so_ long, I haven’t been that person for so _fucking_ long and it’s still there, just waiting for me to slip up, to give in the _tiniest_ bit. I can’t get rid of it. One more thing fucking eating away at me, taking my living, breathing being and swallowing it a day at a time.”

Collapsing onto the couch, the edge of Malcolm’s thigh bumps Sam’s knee. “I just wanted something that would be easy for once, you know?” He hates the pitiful sound of his voice, muffled through his hands over his face. “Something back in _my_ control. Everything’s gone to shit anyway. I mean, you can see that now right in front of you. I’m sat here with no job and no career and nothing to do with myself. With my fucking life.”

She says nothing, letting him compose himself. When he peeks at her, Sam is the same picture of kindness and compassion. Patiently waiting for whatever he wants to tell her. He lowers his hands and holds her gaze for a moment. Wonders how she can stand to sit here with him and hear the absolute mess he’s made of his life. Her hand shifts closer, hovering next to his.

A part of him wishes she wouldn’t. Doesn’t want her to touch him or hold him now when he’s like this. He would break entirely. He doesn’t want her to put him back together.

But another part screams _yes, please yes_. He still remembers the smell of her hair the night of his birthday, the coolness of her fingers under his hand from a couple of weeks ago. The light touch on his wrist when he was full of fury only a few days ago.  

The moment is suspended between them. His fingers twitch. They both hesitate too long.

Sam rises and makes them another cup of tea, and Malcolm waits until she returns to continue.

He’d made a deal with himself. To try to last through the day. Which was a moronic fucking idea, of course, but at least it gave him a challenge.

He called his mum. He told her nothing about Fleming or the holiday or anything else. Managed to keep her talking about herself. There was something grounding about his mum’s strong voice on the other end of the phone. The woman backed down for nothing and no one. He had never been ashamed to admit he got his balls of steel from her. She rattled on about the neighbors and his relatives and scolded him for not calling often enough. Reminded him he still owed her a visit. He’d said he would try. Didn’t mention he could be visiting her right now. Should have been.

After that he called Kara. The kids were yelling and playing in the background and that made him smile for a moment. They wanted to come visit, she’d told him. He asked about how they were getting on and let his sister whittle away a little more of his evening. When he hung up it was late but not late enough. Still so much time to go before morning.

He could take more sleeping pills. But he was afraid it would set him back to the beginning. So he paced the house and kept trying to watch TV. Told himself he could hold out until the morning. He would call at 7 am. He got in bed but it was no use. The time passed even more slowly that way.

Six am would do.

Then 5 am.

4.

“I just wanted to feel like it was me making the choice to call, not the fucking addiction. I know that doesn’t make any sense and it’s the fucking opposite of the way they tell us to think and act but everything was so upside down anyway.”

When Sam nods in understanding he feels she truly does know what he means. His heart breaks a little more.

Just after 2 am on Tuesday he’d dialed Gerry’s number. And bless the poor man, he’d answered. Suppose this wasn’t the first time he’d gotten this type of a call. But it had been quite a long time since Malcolm had made one. They talked for over an hour and Gerry had gotten his mind settled. They made plans to talk again later in the day.

“And then I texted you back,” Malcolm says. “Thank you, by the way. I didn’t say before but... thank you.”

Sam smiles tightly and nods once more.

He pauses, unsure if he should bring her up to speed completely. Sam crosses her arms and seems to think over his story thus far. Then she says, “So thai food for dinner?”

A laugh bursts from Malcolm’s chest. “Yeah, love. Thai food. God, I’m fucking famished.”

She orders and sets them up at the table again while he goes to the loo to splash water on his face. The food arrives quickly and he notes the photographers seem to have given up for the day. Thank fuck for small miracles. Toting the sweaty bag over to the table he sees Sam has put him at the head of the table and herself directly to his right. _Very fitting_ , he thinks.

While they eat he tells her about Kara and kids. How she’d called him that same Tuesday he’d first spoken with Gerry and asked if they could visit the next week. She’d found a cheap flight and she and the kids could really use an easy holiday. He was taken aback but said yes anyway. He heard the kids clamoring excitedly.

Malcolm also tells Sam of his incredibly foolish plan to sway the press and smiles ruefully when she shakes her head at him.

“You mean your ghee wasn’t enough to win over the collective press?”

“Hey! It was fuckin’ good ghee!”

She chuckles. “I’m sure it was, Malcolm.”

“But no, it didn’t fuckin’ work. And here we are. Steve Fleming’s master plan has landed me stuck in my own house and I can’t even completely blame the fucker because I dug my own grave.”

Sam doesn’t contradict him. They both know it’s true. “Doesn’t mean you deserved it, Malcolm. The PM owes you better, the government owes you better.”

He shakes his head. “Naw, I’m expendable. I always was. I was just the last the figure it out.”

They fall into silence again but it’s companionable now. He knows she’s thinking over everything he’s told her in the past few hours. And maybe wondering what he held back. As he picks at his noodles and undefined meats and veggies he considers if he should’ve told her the extent of his phone call with Gerry.

His sponsor had asked him if there was someone else he could talk to, a friend, a family member, someone he could be more personal with. His first instinct had been a resounding no. There was no one. Jamie was long gone, uninterested in anything to do with him. There was his mother and his sister but he couldn’t stomach worrying them with this. But Gerry had pressed him. Surely there was someone?

Yes, he’d finally admitted. There was. A friend, or maybe something other than that. He didn’t really know. He thought of banter over pasta and late nights in the office and bright brown eyes shining at him even on his worst days. And he remembered the texts that had come in earlier in the night and how badly he’d wanted to pick up the phone and call. He knew she would help.

But he also remembered how she’d cried on his birthday and the hurt on her face when he’d left on Friday. He remembered choosing to push her away rather than risk her getting too close to the toxic dump of his life. He didn’t want to hurt her any more. Wasn’t ready to tell her what he’d done, what he nearly did.

And yet somehow she’d already known. That second message told him so. Sam always knew. She was already hurting. He owed her something. So he replied and promised himself to talk to her every day the rest of his holiday. He couldn’t go back to the office early and he couldn’t tell her what had happened but he could do that much.

He still could.

Once more he lets his eyes dance over her. She had hardly said a word about the pile of garbage he had unveiled. A niggling insecurity jabs at his soul but he smothers it. _She’s still here, isn’t she?_

Just then she glances up and catches him staring. He looks away quickly but sees the slight curve of her mouth. He shifts uncertainly in his seat. Their knees bump under the table. She doesn’t recoil. He hides his flushed face in a mouthful of noodles. But he doesn’t miss another quirk of her lips.

When they finish he walks her to the back door. Even though he’s fairly sure the press have given up the game he doesn’t want to take any risks. The deliveryman he couldn’t care less about. But Sam caught leaving his house was unacceptable.

He’s spent their entire time together doing the talking, a first for them, and yet he still has no clue how to say goodbye. They stand awkwardly until she says good night and reaches for the handle.

“Wait!” he bursts out, surprising himself. “Wait...I know I said it before but…I mean it, Sam. Thank you. For today. For being here. For always…” He trails off, afraid of how to finish that sentiment. Sam’s face softens.

“You’re welcome, Malcolm.” She adjusts the grip on her bag. “And you know, I would’ve-”

“I know,” he says because he does. “I know you would.” The words are firm.

Sam cocks her head a little to the side, her eyes studying his face like she’s replacing a picture of him in her mind. “I was worried about you.”

He drops his head and sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m…” rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t want you to worry. I was just, I don’t know what I was doing taking time off. Didn’t fool anyone. Made everything worse.”

Sam steps closer. Their toes nearly touch. “Maybe but I didn’t just mean then. I meant now. You left and I didn’t hear anything from you and I thought maybe…” She clears her throat, suddenly misty-eyed again.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.” Unable to take it, he reaches out slowly and squeezes her free arm, fingers wrapped just above her elbow. They stare at one another. Her eyes are so brown and warm he can’t help but sigh a little.

Sam shifts to dislodge his grip but as his fingers slip away, gliding along the underside of her arm, she catches them. Holds their hands between their bodies and doesn’t drop his gaze. He remembers her eyes full of tears on Wednesday and the broken way she’d said his name. His thumb circles one of her knuckles. A small indulgence. The right kind.

“Don’t disappear on me like that, alright?” She kneads his fingers gently. Something hitches in Malcolm’s chest. He can only nod in reply.

Sam holds them in the moment for another beat then lets go and backs out the door. “Call you tomorrow,” she whispers, a true smile on her face again. She doesn’t wait for his answer. When he closes the door he realizes it’s because he’s smiling too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone wasn't sure, the guy we see Malcolm going over job options with during Episode 8 is the Gerry in this story. He doesn't have a name in the episode so I made one up but a few times, including somewhat recently, Peter has said he believes that guy is also Malcolm's sponsor because he believes Malcolm has had addiction issues in the past. So this was my take on those issues. Let me know your thoughts!


	6. Sam: Fear and Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a lot of trouble for many reasons, including working out the timeline for these events. I know on the show Malcolm is fired in one episode and then comes back in the next. For the purposes of this story we'll be sticking (mostly) with the [timeline](http://duckodeathreturns.tumblr.com/post/122941078091/the-the-thick-of-it-timeline-a-completely-well) painstakingly worked out by duckodeathreturns. Hope it all makes sense! Big thanks once again to elloette for helping me get this chapter together!

Christmas Day. She sleeps in and doesn’t change out of her pajamas until late. Her parents are still exhausted from having her nephews over yesterday and seem glad to take the day to recover. Sitting on the garden bench even in the biting cold, her hands around a large cup of tea, she feels at peace. She hopes somewhere off in Scotland Malcolm is feeling the same.

She had convinced him to go home for the holidays. Unsurprisingly he had been stubborn to the point of exasperation. Ultimately she had gotten him to agree there was nothing to be gained by sitting alone for days.

“But what about you?” he’d asked as they decorated the small tree she had insisted he buy for his house. “Can’t leave you alone on Christmas.”

She had nearly blushed, touched by his sweetness. Fairy lights twinkled in his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to my parents’. Brian is bringing the kids on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh. Alright. Good then.” For an instant, she swore his face had looked crestfallen. But when she looked again he was nodding. “So we’ll both go home for the holidays.”

She had tried to follow up but he’d cut her off by asking for more ornaments. She’d let the subject drop.

And now she sits crossed legged on her bed at her parents’. They’ve long since gone to bed but she waits up, reading a new book and contemplating falling asleep to a documentary. It’s late into the evening when her phone buzzes against her leg. Before she even picks it up she knows who it will be.

“Hello?”

“Merry Christmas.” The rich Scottish accent makes her cheeks glow.

“Merry Christmas, Malcolm.” She waits for him to continue and hears people in the background. Impatient she adds, “How is it there?”

“Good, it’s good. My mum made a nice roast beef and Kara is completely fuckin’ sloshed. I’ve just put the wee ones to bed.”

Sam giggles. “Were they excited to see their Uncle Malc?”

“Nearly popped one of my fuckin’ kidneys when they hugged me.” When he laughs, she can picture his face lighting up. She fiddles with the hem of her sheet.

They talk for several minutes and she hears all about Ellie’s delighted squeals at the art set Malcolm had bought her. Mark has seemingly forgiven him for their ruined visit only weeks ago. “Lad has barely let me alone! He’s dragged me all around and got me to buy him fuckin’ treats and presents everywhere. Fucking extortionist!” He sounds proud.

“Softie,” she whispers and he chuckles quietly in concession.

Malcolm asks after her own holiday, which is so much less exciting in comparison. They admit this somehow seems fitting. She tries to encourage him to extend his time there but he’s firm with his plans to fly back tomorrow morning.

“You still coming back late tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah, I thought that’d be good,” she says. “You know, give myself Sunday to recover before work on Monday.”

“Right,” he says, his voice dropping off and her stomach feels sour with guilt. Only a week had passed since he laid the tragedy of his non-holiday at her feet. A week of getting used to life without work in it. A week of trying to find his life again at all.

“Anyway,” he says, suddenly sounding uncertain. “I just wanted to call to say Merry Christmas...  and all that.” She can hear him shuffle around wherever he is.

“Thank you. I’m glad you’re having such a good time.” She wrestles with the words itching to be said and finally gives in. It’s Christmas after all. “I was hoping you’d call.”

“Yeah…” He says it so quietly she feels a jolt of panic. Should she not have said anything? Bollocky bollocks. The silence stretches longer and longer until she can’t stand it.

“Well, it’s late and you’ve got an early day tomorrow so-”

“Do you want to have dinner?”

Sam’s entire body freezes in either anticipation or terror; she can’t tell which. “I’m sorry?”

“Dinner. When you get back.”

“I…” She bites her lip, at a complete loss of what to say. Malcolm takes her hesitation exactly the opposite, fumbling out far more words than were necessary.

“Nothing fancy or anything. I just- I fuckin’ owe you. You came over and let me just fucking spew all of that horrid shit and were so… And plus you’ve always been- I mean, I owe you for more than that. So I just thought maybe dinner to say thank you for…” She can picture his hand whirling in the air, searching for the right words.  “...everything.”

At some point a smile had stretched across her face and she’d stopped clutching her sheet. “Yes,” she says quickly before he can say another word. She didn’t know she could smile so wide. “Merry Christmas, Malcolm.”

“Merry Christmas, love.”

 

* * *

 

Their post-Christmas dinner begins a new but wholly familiar tradition.

They meet twice a week in the evening. Sometimes on the weekend too. In most ways, it is no different than the countless late night meals they’ve shared over the past few years. Sam still does most of the talking and Malcolm still does not seem to mind. They share food without any pretense or qualms. She even brings food from the old haunts near Downing Street.

Despite being largely out of the news now, Malcolm is still wary of being out in public so they eat almost exclusively at this house. She thinks perhaps he’s also concerned what it would mean for her to be seen with him. She considers telling him she isn’t afraid, isn’t ashamed, but knows it wouldn’t matter. And she can’t deny she likes the comfort of the two of them in his home.

January passes with dinners and long nights on his couch talking. It occurred to her during that first meal together after Christmas that they might not connect the way she was accustomed to. No more 10+ hours a day spent near one another. No work talk to fall back on or to hide behind. It was always her hope that she offered him a kind of reprieve from the chaos and swirling despair of Number 10. A small, tranquil niche to return to. If he had ever needed it, he didn’t, or shouldn’t, now.

So Sam is surprised by his interest in spending time with her. Even more surprised to discover a new kind of easiness evolving between them. They had always understood one another and worked almost effortlessly in harmony, but only now does she begin to understand how well they fit together. When she tries to examine the thought further, nerves flutter in her chest.

They sit on his couch a little closer than before. More than once their knees linger next to one another under the table while they eat. He laughs a little more, a little longer. He talks more too. Tells her stories about Christmas and a few about his family. But he is still guarded. There are only so many things he can tell her without mentioning the government. It was his life. The thought that it still may be, that he wants it to be, troubles her.

He does not inquire about the state of the office, only about how she is getting on. She had expected to conceal the truth from him but in fact, there is no need. Lord Nicholson did as he said he would and questioned her as part of the crime stats report. If he was disappointed in her apparent lack of involvement in the fuck up, or Malcolm’s role in it, he did not let it show. Then everyone seemed to forget her. With Malcolm apparently vanquished her importance dwindled. Not that she was complaining, mind. There were certain perks to being ignored; Steve Fleming no longer had time for her. Small miracles.

Sam doesn’t ask about whether she’ll be staying on. Just keeps doing her job. It all seems very foreign without Malcolm. Every day is so calm relative to what she was used to. There are no swear-filled shouting matches in the afternoon. Malcolm is not dashing in and out of his office every hour of the day. Ministers do not slink past her desk anymore, their hubris tucked between their legs. No one whispers secrets about Minister Asshat or grins conspiratorially at her over their late morning coffee during a hundred useless meetings. No one leaves fresh fruit on her desk. She has to duck to hide the ridiculous tears that spring up when, one night after dinner, Malcolm hands her a container of apples and pears.

Left mainly to manage her own daily schedule, she slips into Malcolm’s office (it would always be his) and collects the few personal items there. Ellie’s paintings. A handful of postcards from Kara and his mother. A few clothes hanging in the closet for those times when he wouldn’t make it home before the next day began. In a desk drawer, she finds the case for the pen she gifted him one year for his birthday.

She piles it all in her car and delivers it to him one Friday evening. He promptly adds Ellie’s paintings to the others still hanging on his fridge.

Twice he takes her out to eat, after Christmas and then again weeks later. Both times it’s to somewhere new for them. He insists on paying and driving her home. Sam laughs at the absurdity of it and upon the realization that she has never seen Malcolm drive before. She also watches closely, waiting for a signal of what’s happening, what they’re doing. There is nothing untoward in his behavior, no assumptions or pressure. Nothing to suggest he wants anything other than what they’ve always had. It all feels exactly and nothing like before.

Just once she falls asleep on his couch. She wakes in the darkest night to find he’d laid her down and covered her with a blanket. Her shoes, removed shortly after dinner, still sit on the floor next to her bag. She fumbles for her phone on the table and finds a sticky note on top of it.

_Go back to sleep. It’s too early/late to drive home. Don’t worry._

_M x_

_PS: Wake me if you decide to leave anyway._

Sam smiles at Malcolm’s messy writing, slips the note into her bag and nestles back under the blanket. It smells clean and just a little spicy. Fresh and masculine. Malcolm. In the morning, she wakes to sausage and eggs frying and stays until after lunch before dragging herself home, smiling stupidly the whole drive.

It’s moments like that she feels herself falling. Wants to give in and let go. It would be easy. Sometimes she sees the steps laid out before them and wants desperately to run down them.

When he laughs long and joyfully, his head thrown back, elegant neck stretched out and the years falling away from his face.

Or when they go to a new Italian restaurant where the leg space under the table is so cramped they spend nearly three hours with their knees pressed to one another.

How his eyes sparkle as she tells him about her nephews.

There is no reason to stay late at the office anymore. She meets him for dinner instead or goes home and sometimes he calls for a quick chat, talking in that machine gun way of his about another shit job offer or asking if they can try a new sandwich shop around the corner.

It feels like living an entirely different kind of life.

She wants to love it. In many ways she does. But she can’t, not fully. Everything is tainted with worry.

Not like before, of course. _At least, this is better than his holiday that wasn’t a holiday_ , she thinks. At least she knows what’s going on now. No, what makes her hesitate is seeing Malcolm’s granite heart begin to crack and him frantically trying to seal it once again.

She likes to think the time they spend together makes him happy. But always there is something guarded in his gaze. Something missing or anticipating or withering away. Or maybe something trying to claw back to the surface. He has had some of the fight stamped out of him but not all of it. A part of him isn’t ready to let go, isn’t ready to give up. Not like that, not yet.

It was a given from the start that they would never discuss the office. At first, she thought it was as much a necessity for him as keeping Scotch out of the house. That she was still and in some ways would always be intrinsically linked to the government makes her think Malcolm will someday need to keep her out too. But the more time they spend together, the more they gravitate towards one another, the more a dark thought tucked deep in her mind pricks at her. That he had not given up on the government. That he would not. That he was holding on to her _because_ she was a link to that world. A world he desperately wanted to rejoin.

She does not blame him for wanting another shot. He deserved far more than the exit he was forced to take. He could do far more good than anyone gave him credit for. She knows that, knows he would given the chance, and, if he let her, she would stand beside him the whole way. And yet it does not stop her heart from groaning low and mournful in her chest. A lament that Malcolm Tucker thinks himself so unworthy of any other life.

It’s a Sunday night in mid-February when his doorbell sounds. Malcolm’s hands are full with their drinks so she rushes to answer it. “Don’t give him a tip! Fucker’s late!” he hollers from the living room.

She smiles and ignores him. Takes the food and is just saying thank you when the delivery boy stops her. “Sorry, you’ve got to sign.” He holds a receipt out to her.

“Oh! Really?” Her face scrunches in confusion. She sets down the bag and takes the receipt. “New policy?”

“Yeah, some wankers were sayin’ they got charged wrong or something. All’s I know is the boss said we gotta have people sign the receipt now.”

She looks at him expectantly but receives only a blank stare in reply. Apparently the policy didn’t come with a set of pens.

“Alright, just-” She holds up her hand and hurries to grab one.

Malcolm intercepts. “Something the matter?”

“No, no, just need to sign the receipt. Have you got a pen?”

He pulls one from his pocket, shaking his head. “Losing your touch,” he teases.

She shoots him a glare and is already signing the receipt when she realizes what pen she is holding. The receipt sorted and the door closed, she returns to the living room and hands him the bag of food.

“Fucking finally!” he cries. “Took them ages. We’ve got to find a new place.”

He dishes up their food and settles into the couch where she joins him. Swallowing a big bite of food, he hums in satisfaction. “These noodles, though, they’re fucking fabulous, Sam. Only redeeming thing for that shithole. Lucky sods.”

She’s quiet as they eat side by side. He chatters on about the noodles and some place Mark dragged him to during the holidays but her mind is elsewhere. It isn’t until he nudges her with an elbow that she notices she has been dragging her fork through her food mindlessly. “Sam?” he says a little forcefully.

“Hmmm?” she looks up, eyes adjusting their focus into the present.  

He grins teasingly. “I asked if you found a piece of horse cock in and amongst your beef pad thai.”

“No... no,” she says distractedly.

He cocks his head to the side, frowning now, and brings one leg up on the couch so he can face her. “Y’know,” he says seriously, “if I’ve become that much of a boring fuck it’s your job to tell me.”

“What? Oh no! No, Malcolm, sorry. I was just…” She presses her lips together and gazes at him for a beat. Then she mimics his posture, her stockinged foot dangerously close to his, and reaches out to hand him back the pen that’s been resting next to her leg.

“Oh, thanks,” he says brightly and tucks it into his pocket. He ducks his head towards his plate, examining his dinner intently. An unspoken question looms between them.

“Had it with me,” he says finally. “That day.” He taps his chest where the breast pocket of his jacket would lay.

It’s so casual she nearly feels foolish for having such a reaction. But then he meets her eyes. Bright blue and so earnest. He looks exposed, almost boyish, but also entirely the Malcolm she has always known.

With a jolt, she realizes she wants to kiss him.

The urge is enough to make her entire body flush. Sam quickly turns away and takes a large bite of noodles to suppress it. Her mouth still full she asks him to finish the story he’d begun the other night about Kara getting drunk on Christmas. He lets her change the subject without comment. She thinks maybe his ears look a bit pink.

As the evening wears on, he tells her about his conversations with Gerry and their meetings to go over the flood of offers he has received. Hardly any of them warrant actual consideration. Malcolm tries to laugh them off but a melancholy hangs over him. She can tell he’s devastated to be inches away from being a political gag. A wind-up sweary toy brought out to amuse the masses.

“I can look over that stuff with you too if you want,” she offers, not for the first time.

“No!” he says sharply.

A wounded look flits across her face.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Sam. I just meant, I don’t think you ought to be involved in that. You’re still at Number 10 after all.”

She nods and hides her disappointment in a bite of vanilla ice cream with fresh, sweet peaches (February’s delivery). It is already late as they sit watching the depressing news cycle. Usually, she likes these quiet moments with him but now the black spot buried deep in her mind pulses to life.  _He is still keeping me at arm's length._ She tries not to think too hard about why. 

It’s a few days later when she gets the text and acknowledges she has been anticipating it for weeks. Whispers around Number 10 have been saying Lord Nicholson has finally recognized Steve Fleming’s blatant mania. A rumor is also being passed around about ministers threatening to resign, afraid Malcolm will open his Pandora’s Box and unleash their worst secrets. That part makes her grin wickedly to herself.

When the text comes it is already evening and she’s happily slipped on her pajamas. Tomorrow night she’s bringing the good burgers over to Malcolm’s. He texted earlier and mentioned a meeting about a radio show. She gathered it didn’t go well. But when her phone chimes now her surprised smile drops.

“Got a call from a baldy bird. On my way in for a late night meeting.”

 

 


	7. Malcolm: The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my incredible beta, elloette, for helping me get this chapter just right, especially the flashback parts. You're the best! 
> 
> Recommended viewing for Chapter 7: Season 3, Episode 8

It is incredible how quickly things progress. All those long weeks trying to sort himself out and in a matter of days he’s done it. It’s almost too easy to maneuver himself back into the PM’s good graces, back into his job and his life.

Malcolm purposefully takes the long way to his office but Sam isn’t at her desk. After hovering for a minute or two he sighs in disappointment and carries on. But he leaves a particularly fresh smelling peach for her.

Stepping back into his office is both comforting and jarring. The walls are almost stripped, most of the decorations and ornaments packed away. He can’t remember the last time there were so few papers everywhere. But still, he smiles.

He’s back.

His domain within his grasp once more.

The smile widens further when he sees what is waiting for him on the desk. A new bag of satsumas. He shakes his head, delighted.

_Clever woman_ , he thinks. He decides to wait to tear into them until later. If his instincts are right, it was going to be a long night. The first of many. Something like anticipation tickles in his veins.

With his feet kicked up on the desk he waits for Julius’ inevitable tirade. That alone would be sweet enough but the excitement of Steve’s inevitable sacking trumps all. Perhaps that’s what Malcolm feels most proud about. Victory over the psycho with the fucking mustache. If anything, Fleming should be thanking him. Skewered by an independent report was far more reputable an exit than either of them had had before.

Had there ever been any doubt he would take this chance, not only to reclaim his job but to fuck Steve Fleming over once and for all? A few days ago, when he had stepped into the car after his late meeting with Julius, he hadn’t been so sure.

The massive poof might’ve thought it was already settled and signed in his precious swan’s blood. But Malcolm could’ve put a stop to that in an instant. Called back and said, “Fuck you and this government and I’d rather crawl into a demon’s bunghole than spend another fuckin’ second selling myself for this circus of syphilitic monkeys.”

In the car, head resting on the back of the seat, he had admitted part of him wanted to do just that. Leave the fuckers with their cocks in the wind. It was what they deserved. He’d given them everything he had, every cell, every vessel, every breath from his dilapidated body, and it hadn’t made a fucking difference. The moment they could get rid of him, they’d done it. Chucked him into the street like a carcass for the zombie press to feed on. And yet… he’d rallied. That his foot in the doorway of Number 10 had to do with a handful of ministers and their paranoia rankled him. But he would make it work. He would have to.

He was almost home from the meeting when he pulled his phone from his pocket. “Meet you after?” Sam had texted, hours ago.

“Heading home...” he’d begun to write, then hesitated. As the car pulled up to a light, he considered how close he wanted Sam to this. _Fuck it_ , he’d decided, and added, “You sure it’s not too late?”

They’d only just pulled through the intersection when Sam replied. “Never. On my way.”

Absurdly his next thought had been that he would need to cancel their dinner plans for the following night. The sourness in his stomach lasted the rest of the journey home.

In the present, the side door cracks open, dislodging him from his memories. Sam pops her head in.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“You too.” He nods at the satsumas.

“Thought you might need something today.” She smiles kindly and he feels his own gaze soften. “I’ll keep this closed, shall I?”

“Yeah, I want his Right Honorable Lord Baldington to be surprised.”

Sam smirks and shuts the door again. Feeling a little lighter than before, Malcolm flicks open the inquiry report to savor once again what will be Steve Fleming’s fitting downfall.

 

* * *

  

It takes no convincing at all to get the PM to call the election. The starter pistol fires. The tempo cranks to 11 in a heartbeat and Malcolm is alive again. In his element. It’s the race he feels he was born for.

Much of what he needs to do is bring everyone back into the loop, reestablish his network as _his_ , and ascertain who exactly needs to be fucking snuffed before they fuck over the whole party. Everything continues to be remarkably easy. He grins wickedly every time a minister sounds relieved he has returned.

Fleming’s final pathetic words don’t phase him. Julius’ feeble attempt at a threat carries even less impact. Not even Nicola Murray and her uncanny ability to ruin everything can derail him. He is master of all, expert on spin, commander of a legion of fuck-ups and morons who were eager to do his bidding once more.

And Sam. Wonderful Sam.

So calm and efficient and anticipating everything he needed. Making sure he was suited and booted for his call to arms. Bringing him Fanta and then cup after cup of coffee before weaning him onto tea, eyes full of mirth when he glared at her. Batting his hands away as he tried to clean up the decimated remains of the satsumas.

“I’ll bring you a new bag tomorrow,” she says. “And I’ll restock the pantry properly for you.”

It is late by then, many of his soldiers having dragged themselves home, bloodied but ready for battle again the next day. He and Sam are ensconced in his office again as though no time has passed at all. As he watches her tidying up, restoring order while simultaneously making his office _his_ , he feels a twinge. For just a little while they’d had different kinds of moments together.

He thinks about her insisting he get a Christmas tree to brighten his place, proclaiming, “This isn’t a prison, Malcolm. You can decorate a bit, you know?” He thinks about her face lighting up as they trimmed that tree and the sweetness of her voice Christmas evening.

Then there was that first dinner out together and driving her home and her brushing off his offer to walk her to the door.

And her true smile when he’d lit a fire under his troops earlier today, pride evident on her face.

The warmth of her presence in his kitchen a few nights ago...

The memories make Malcolm’s lips curve in pleasure as he watches her glide around his office as if she were a part of it as much as he was. “Make sure to put your favorites in the pantry too, yeah?”

“Of course,” she replies, her tilted head telling him the question had been a stupid one. He rolls his eyes as a grin stretches across his lips.

“Come on,” he says, rising from his chair and stretching a moment. “The rest can fucking wait. It’s been a long day. Let’s turn in.”

Sam nods in agreement and they both ready themselves to leave. He lingers while she gathers her things and resists the urge to help her into her coat. It’s not until she catches his eye that he realizes he was staring. Fighting down the flush rising up his neck he says, “I’ll walk you to your to your car.”

Sam freezes, then dips her head a little. “Don’t be daft, Malcolm. There’s no need.”

“Of course there is,” he says a little indignantly.

“No, I’ll be fine,” she says quietly, moving away from him and smiling a little regretfully.

He’s about to protest further when his phone rings. Sam stops retreating towards the door.

“What?” he barks into the handset. A minute passes while some inane reporter prattles on to him and Sam lightly sways side to side by the door. “It’s alright,” he whispers, hand over his phone. “Go ahead. I’ve just got to take care of this fucking twat and I’ll be off too.”

“Y’sure?” She glances over him.

“Yeah,” he says, defeated. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Good night, Malcolm.”

“Night, Sam.” He watches until she turns out of sight, even as the reporter shouts for his attention.

 

* * *

 

Home again. The yawning darkness his only welcome.

He dumps the folders and papers in his arms on the table and retreats upstairs. As if the past two months have not happened, his body resumes its stubborn refusal to sleep. He lays awake for a long time, his mind alive with activity.

There was a long haul ahead, everything uphill, with only a few weapons to lob at the Opposition that was bearing down on them. Nearly everyone was too incompetent to do anything without him there to hold their hand but if it meant becoming fucking Vishnu he would manage it.

As exhaustion finally wins out, his never ending to-do list gives way to other thoughts. Memories from what already feels like a lifetime ago begin to seep into the forefront of his mind. He lets them.

Only a few days before, the car had dropped him off and he quickly went in to start tea for two. The kettle had just boiled when there was a polite tapping at his back door.

“You can use the front,” Malcolm had said by way of greeting. “No need to skulk around.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Maybe I like skulking. Or maybe I’m just used to using the back door.”

For an instant, he was caught in her stare and felt something tingle up his spine. He turned away. “Tea, yeah?”

“Please.” She followed him to the kitchen and sat at the table. Frowning, he joined her there with two cups of their preferred tea. They drank in a new, unusually awkward silence until Sam poked his foot with her own. He had been avoiding looking at her.

“Do you…” She fidgeted in her seat. His frown deepened. “Do you want to talk about your meeting with Lord Nicholson?”

_No_ , he thought instinctively. He choked it down and managed instead to say, “Yeah, alright.” When he failed to continue, Sam leaned back in her chair and tilted her head inquisitively.

Teeth grinding together as his jaw tightened, he struggled to find the right words. She wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“They want me to come back.”

Sam nodded. She’d expected this.

“Tomorrow, in fact.” That surprised her. He could read the why in her expression.

“Everything is going to hell and they need the devil himself to guide them away from the worst.” He flashed his best shark-tooth grin but if fell flat. Sam was chewing her lip in a way that made him want to fill the silence lest she say whatever was on her mind.

“It was simple enough,” he continued. His hands gestured excitedly as he spoke. “They’re worried about a mass exodus of ministers and want me to throw myself in front of the herd. In return, they’ll let me back in in an advisory capacity. Which isn’t the same as before but it’s a fucking start if nothing else.”

He leaned to try to catch Sam’s eye but she had dropped her gaze to the hands wringing in her lap. The rest of her was still. His leg bounced anxiously.  

“Just like that?” she said quietly and raised her eyes. He felt his heart go cold. She looked devastated for some reason. He bobbed his head in reply. “After everything?”

He started. “As opposed to what?” he replied defensively, hostility seeping into his tone before he could stop it.

“No, I only meant…” Sam leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. A sigh rattled from her lips. “They put you through that whole ordeal, the sacking, the mind games, all of it, and now they’re just letting you back in?”

“Yeah well maybe they realized they can’t do shit without me. Maybe they got it through their itty bitty brains that Steve Fleming can’t steer this government anywhere except the fucking scrap heap. Or maybe they’re just fucking scared of what’ll happen if I _don’t_ come back.”

“But Malcolm-”

He'd stood suddenly, startling them both. “Or it’s finally occurred to them that I was just doing my fucking job and if they hadn’t fucking forced themselves in, everything would’ve been fine. They’ve realized it was all their fucking fault to begin with.”

“Fine, fine, but do you even-”

“Who the fuck cares _how_ I’m back in as long as I _am?_ Back where I’m supposed to be, where I fucking _deserve_ to be! You said yourself I deserved better. Well, now I’ve got a shot at it!”

Sam looked like she wanted to say something but he was even more afraid now to hear her thoughts. Fear and worry were pounding in his mind while hatred and rage tumbled in his heart. The more he talked, the more he lost control until finally he was telling her all of the things he had sworn in the car he would keep to himself.

“You think I wanted it this way? I wanted them fucking _begging_ me to come back. Hands and knees, fucking groveling. The PM should’ve been on my doorstep offering me a fucking Italian villa and a massive fucking stipend just so I’d _think_ about settin’ foot in Number 10 again.

“Instead they just fucking called and I came like some abused fucking dog that doesn’t know any better. I let Lord Twatface take charge of my fucking fate, with his hats and fucking pencils and psychobabble. He talked like he knew I would say yes, as though there was no possibility that I might tell him to shove those fucking pencils up his arse.”

Sam stood and took a step towards him but he couldn’t bear the sight of her. He whipped away and retreated to the kitchen. His back to her, hands on the counter, he whispered, “That’s the worst of it, Sam. I didn’t even deny it. Julius was clapping me on the back like some Year 7 who’d won a tae kwon do competition and I just stood there lettin’ him. I let him fuckin’ ply me with shitty rice and onion bhajis and the tiniest fucking glimmer of hope.”

He closed his eyes. Tried to push down his emotions. Tuck them away. Already re-training his mind, his body, to lock down. Moisture pooled in his eyes anyway. It had all fucking worked. Julius had given him an opening and in a snap, he was their property again. Built and owned by the state. It made him feel weak.

“Malcolm?”

Her voice was so hushed he would’ve thought it were a dream but for the hand on his shoulder. She pulled him to face her. While his body obeyed, his head resisted. Face turned away, his neck bared and eyes still closed, his shoulders squared to Sam. There was a long pause, each waiting, her hand not letting go of him. He couldn’t look at her as the words burst out of him, unbidden and broken.

“I don’t even know why I’m fucking-”

“It’s alright,” she whispered to him. “It’s alright, it’s alright.” A benediction.

Her arms slipped around him, holding him tight to her. She tucked her face between the collar of his fleece and his neck. The feel of her pressed so tightly to his skin was enough to make a sob stick in his throat.

“Sam-”

“Shhhhh,” she said, hands heavy over his spine. “I know.”

There was nothing to do but hold her in return. Arms around her. Head dipping down to rest his cheek to her ear. Relief poured over him. The tension in his soul unfurled.

How had it taken him, them, so long? Why hadn’t he been in Sam Cassidy’s arms again until now? And why did it have to be now?

_We ought to try this sometime when neither of us is fucking crying_ , he’d thought to himself. Meant to tell her so. But he didn’t want to speak and break the embrace they had. He’d turned to murmur against her temple instead, lips touching her skin almost like a tentative kiss.

Again he tried to tell her.

“Sam, I…”

The words were caught, held down by the revived blackness that lived in his heart. A stuttering breath escaped instead making wisps of her hair flutter and tickle his nose.

He pulled her closer still. They had on fewer layers than last time. With his hand spread wide on her back, it was easy to feel the way her heart picked up. He knew his pulse was beating twice as hard and that she must feel it. Her face was still securely hidden against his neck, puffs of breath trickling into the open collar of his jumper. When her fingers brushed along his shoulder blades, he shivered and felt it reverberate through her.

“Malcolm.” Her hands glided down his back to rest just under his ribs. He nuzzled his nose into her hair just a little. Tiptoeing along that line. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

His arms tightened around her again, holding on a little longer even as he felt her grip begin to loosen at his sides.

“Yes,” he said, voice cracking.

Sam leaned back to meet his eyes and frowned. Unconsciously, her thumbs brushed the planes of his stomach.

“I don’t know,” he continued. “But…” He was afraid to say he didn’t think he could do anything else besides this. He didn’t know how. What was he without the job? _Who_ was he if not Malcolm Fucking Tucker, the Demon of Downing?

He let go of her but didn’t move back, letting her hold them together. Eyes still boring into him, Sam slowly dropped her own hands. They took a step away from each other.

After a moment, she nodded. “Okay,” she said firmly. It struck him that her tone was uncomfortably similar to the day of his sacking when he’d reassured her.

Unable to think of how to segue, he said the first thing that came to mind. “It really was truly fucking terrible rice, Sam.”

She laughed then, high and true. “And you _hate_ onion bhajis.”

A laugh pried itself loose from his throat. “I fucking do hate them.”

The sparkle he had seen so much of the past two months returned to Sam’s eyes. “Come on,” she motioned towards the table again. From her bag, she pulled a notepad and pen. “Tell me what’s next. Tell me what you need.” She began writing before he said a thing, a list already forming on the paper.

He approached cautiously and laid a hand on the back of his chair. “You mean, you’ll-”

“Of course I will,” she cut him off. “Stupid man. Can’t have you killing anyone besides the intended targets, can I?” She smiled warmly and another wave of relief enveloped him. He turned away from her as, for the second time that night, his eyes threatened to well up.

She would stay with him. Even though it meant going backwards in many ways. Back to what they had always done. Horrendously long days, stolen dinners together in his office, and a relationship even less classifiable than whatever they had been edging towards in the interim.

The thought pierced his heart. He had told her none of this and yet he was sure she knew. Knew long before he let himself acknowledge it. She knew and she had chosen him anyway.

He rubbed a hand over his brow and took a steadying breath. When he turned and sat down, he spied Sam’s list. It had already taken up half the page. He waited until she looked up, then smiled at her, real and genuine, hoping against hope it would convey all of the gratitude he didn’t have the courage to express. One corner of her mouth pulled into a half grin. Then she raised her eyebrows and motioned to the list and they got to work.

All through that night as they worked and in the days following he had marveled at her strength, her intelligence, her faith in him. Despite all of her softness, underneath Sam was the right kind of steel. Not the kind that rusted and rotted, not like him. The kind that gleamed in the sunlight and soaked up the heat.

The memory peters out as sleep fades in. But tendrils of it flicker into Malcolm's dreams.

He can feel her breath ripple over his skin when he holds her a little closer. Hears her say his name in that firm but sweet way, as only she can. Tastes the slight salt of her skin where his lips had too briefly been.

_Of course I will_ , she says to him again and again and even in his dreams, his heart breaks a little as they smile at one another.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a bit of fun, when watching episode 8, in the scene when Julius finds Malcolm reading his report about Fleming, take a look at what's on the desk...


	8. Sam: Not Entirely Opposed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended viewing for Chapter 8: Season 4, Episode 2
> 
> Still using the same timeline as before though, for anyone following along really closely, it does get a bit tricky because of Malcolm's comment about "two years." I won't get into it because it doesn't really matter for the sake of this story. We're all just going to accept that in the above-mentioned episode Malcolm has been in Opposition for two years or thereabouts. Anyway. Enough about timelines. Enjoy the chapter!

 

They lose the election. Malcolm is beside himself.

When the day of reckoning has wound down and his temper has simmered, he sits with her in his office, which, very soon, will not be his anymore. His fingers are steepled against his thin lips. Underneath, a fire still rages but he’s gone silent. Sam decides this will not do.

Amid his protestations, she bundles him away to a hole in the wall diner they like. Not as good as Burger Palace, mind, but worth the short drive. They tuck themselves into a corner booth and order a burger each and fries to share. The food revives Malcolm and he goes on about the horrors of being in Opposition. She listens and steals more than her share of fries and is secretly pleased Malcolm still has the urge to fight.

But they are in a holding pattern. The party wants Malcolm involved, hoping his particular set of skills will return them to Downing Street at the first opportunity. For a week, he deliberates. He hates losing and hates admitting defeat even more. Of all the possible exits for him, though, this was one of the best. That a technicality made Nicola Murray leader of the party makes the decision easier and more difficult for him.

At the end of the week, he calls to ask Sam to dinner again. She blinks at the request but agrees. He picks her up, managing not to pout too much when she giggles at him behind the wheel again. They go to the Italian place they’d discovered during his “sabbatical,” as they’ve termed it. The leg space is still quite cramped and made moreso by the way they lean close together, talking more quietly than necessary.

“I’ve decided,” he tells her. “I’m going to go with those helpless pissbags into Opposition and pull this party out of the fucking cesspool we’re floundering in.”

“Good,” she says emphatically and means it. As much as she had been torn on his choice to return to government after being sacked, she knows this time it is right. Malcolm would never be satisfied leaving the party in its current state. She chews a bite of pasta and gestures as if to say, _And?_

Malcolm inexplicably frowns. “Thought you should know,” he says evasively.

She squints, trying to sort out what he’s holding back, why he’s taken her to dinner when a phone call, a text, would’ve sufficed. Not that she’s complaining, really.

Under her searching gaze, Malcolm adjusts his posture and their knees bump together. There’s a momentary tingle of heat on the back of her neck. She’s very aware of the way her stockings glide smoothly along his leg under the table, fitting them against one another fluidly. It makes her want to dip her head, find her pasta in need of an inspection, but she senses she shouldn’t.

In the next instant, Malcolm meets her eyes. In the moment after, the waiter walks up to replenish their bread and drinks, and by the time he’s gone, Malcolm has already launched into a story about the incomparable idiocy of Lord Nicholson. She lets him carry on, laughing along with him.

It is on the short drive to her flat that he falls silent and his frown reappears. Not for the first time, Sam wishes they would dispense with all of this tip-toeing around one another. Just come out and say things. But that would be a two-way street. And if she was too scared, how could she expect him not to be?

Idling outside her flat, gripping the steering wheel and eyes set straight ahead, Malcolm makes no move to end their evening. Afforded the opportunity, she rakes her eyes over him and smiles at what she sees. The lack of a tie. The Paul Smith scarf he loves so dearly. The dark hair at the base of his head and how it curls ever so slightly near his ear.

“Walk me up?” she whispers.

Malcolm blinks several times in succession, coming out of his thoughts slowly, but gives her only a fleeting look before angling himself out of the car. She meets him on the sidewalk and leads the way into her complex and up the outer stairs.

At her door, she faces him. His expression is guarded but he drifts closer, drawn in to her by a force she’s afraid to name.

“Malcolm.” Something soft passes over his face at the sound of his name or at her voice, she can’t be sure which. “Why’d you take me out to dinner tonight?”

His eyes flick over her. “I needed to ask you a question.”

“Alright,” she nods, her tone light even as her heart jumps into her throat.

“Opposition it’s-” he pauses, reconsidering his words. “Fuck, you already know it’s bound to be years of- of- and you don’t have to, of course. But if you wanted to- Fuck knows I’d be, that is I’d like if you would…”

“Malcolm?”

“Come with me? Into Opposition?”

“Yeeeaaah?” she says, drawing the word out, not understanding.

Malcolm visibly relaxes, eyes closing in relief before snapping back open. “You sure?”

Sam frowns, trying to work out what is happening. Then it dawns. She had a choice just like the others. She was not obligated to go into Opposition. She could take another job in government, quit altogether, or go with Malcolm. Sam laughs breathlessly. The choice had been made without her even needing the options.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. I thought- I just assumed, you know? Where you go, I go.”

The statement hangs heavy between them. Malcolm’s penetrating gaze does not lighten it. “I didn’t want to decide for you,” he says in a hushed tone.  

She shakes her head. Someday she would convince Malcolm Tucker he could rely on her to stay by his side, even when no one else would.

“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you, Malcolm.” He hangs his head bashfully. She wants to reach forward and grab his hand in reassurance but both are stuffed into his pockets. Other possibilities flash in her mind but they all seem too intimate (his chest?) or too awkward (his wrist?). So she tugs on the edge of his coat where it hangs in front of her, feeling the coarse, heavy material between her fingers. He looks up to see her smiling broadly, eyes crinkling.  

“And thank you for dinner. I had a really lovely time.” She holds his gaze, letting him see the truth in her own. Finally, his lips curve into a gentle smile.

“You’re welcome, love. So did I.” He sways a little nearer before apparently catching himself and taking a half-step back. Her hand falls away like always. “G’night, Sam.”

“Night, Malcolm.”

Only when she is in her flat, her flushed cheek pressed to the cool wood of the door, does she realize she’d been holding her breath.

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, she finds Malcolm is wrong. Being in Opposition wasn’t too terrible. Yes, they had no real power and that was frustrating. And they watched much of the good their party had done over the last decade be undone by the sodding morons now occupying Number 10. They were also stuck with the staggering incompetence of Nicola Murray, Ben Swain, and a handful of others. She can see it eats at Malcolm to be hogtied by the biggest pack of idiots in Westminster.

Somewhere off-screen, Steve Fleming lurked, unpleasant as ever. A moronic snake in the grass, occasionally showing its beady little eyes in the press. Malcolm preferred to be on the hunt but game was scarce, especially when the person leading your hunting party was Nicola.

But at least the party was not looking to Steve Fleming for salvation. They were looking at Malcolm. In one way, Sam supposed, it was a compliment. In another, it was decidedly the opposite. As before, everyone is waiting for Malcolm to work his magic but unwilling to give him the instruments he needed.

He _is_ given a small office though he hardly needs it. The workload is considerably lighter than either of them experienced at Downing Street. She enjoys the break but she senses Malcolm doesn’t quite know what to do with the time. Often she’d see him wandering, checking on everyone else, his job already done. Efficiency has always been one of Malcolm’s trademarks.

It bothers her seeing him looking like a lost little boy and frowning so severely she thought he might prove mothers everywhere right.

“Come on-” she says one day, snagging his elbow- “before your face gets stuck that way.”

She steers him to the desk he’d acquired for her, a short walk away from his office, and makes him sit in her spare chair. She brings him a cup of tea and they each enjoy some of the special chocolate biscuits she keeps hidden away for him.

Two days later he comes back around the same time of day and plops into the same chair.

“Need something?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

Malcolm holds out two apples to her. She takes one, amused, and he taps the other to it. A toast. They bite into the sweet fruit at the same time and a new tradition is born.   

They still have their dinners together, though hardly any of them are so late as they once were. No one pays her any more mind than before, which is just fine. Only Malcolm asks after her weekends and she about his. She is vague and he is evasive and it makes them both smile. They walk in together almost every morning and no one even gives them a second glance. Sam doesn’t know what to think of that.

A trace of something clings to their interactions but neither of them acknowledges it.

So she waits.

And she doesn’t.

No matter how much of her time her job demands, it is not her life. As much as she cares for Malcolm, neither was he.

She visits her family and spends time with friends. The more relaxed workload affords her free time and she doesn’t waste it, making up for all of the Saturday nights and parties and get-togethers she’s had to blow off the last few years. She dates here and there. Being careful of who to get close to, knowing she is still much too directly linked to politics to be completely carefree. It hardly matters. None of her dates are particularly interesting.

Save one.

An investment banker who is soft spoken and kind. He takes her to nice restaurants and asks to hold her hand on the second date and to kiss her on the fourth. She lets him do both. The kiss is pleasant and makes her feel warm and wanted. Her cheeks glow but it isn’t memories of the kiss that keep her from sleeping soundly that night.

One day the following week Malcolm is waiting outside when she arrives and comes to greet her at her car door.

“What’s wrong?” she says instinctively,

“Fine way to say good morning, lass,” he chuckles.

“Sorry, you just don’t usually meet me in the carpark.”

“I saw you driving in was all.”

“Oh. Well… good morning, Malcolm.”

“Morning, Sam.” They fall into step beside one another.

It’s a rare long day, something she used to be accustomed to and now must remember how she once survived. Malcolm is in and out so frequently they’ve exchanged barely three words since their walk in. Knowing he’ll neglect to eat until he’s ready to rip off Nicola’s head and have that for lunch, she leaves a sandwich on his desk. After a moment’s consideration, she leaves a plum too. Malcolm would prefer citrus but plums were what he’d lined up like little soldiers on her desk earlier in the week so that’s what she has on hand. Under it she tucks a note:

_Eat it. I don’t mind._

_S x_

An hour later she passes his office and spies the door ajar. She’s about to knock when she glimpses Malcolm inside. He is already chewing a bite of sandwich when he picks up the fluorescent orange sticky note. A sort of wistful look crosses his face, a half-smile on his lips, and, when she leans forward a little, she would swear the tiny movement of his thumb is him stroking over her abbreviated signature. He pulls open a middle drawer of his desk and sets the note inside atop a small pile of its brightly colored mates.

The gesture makes her take a step back. She swallows down the lump in her throat then rests her hand to the door. She doesn’t push it open. “Malcolm?”

“Yeah?”

“Want me to give you 20 minutes to finish your lunch?”

Malcolm sighs heavily. “That’d be fucking great, thanks.”

The door has just latched when he flings it open, startling her.

“Mmm s’rry! Haff y’ha lunch?” he asks, mouth full of another bite of sandwich. One side of his hair is ruffled and he’s loosened his tie just a smidge. The sight makes her giggle in spite of the swirl of emotions still trapped in her chest.

“Yeah, a bit ago.”

“Oh,” he chews thoughtfully. “Well what’ve I missed while I’ve been corraling these fucking headless chickens? Anyone light themselves on fire or defect or something?”

She chuckles and nods towards his office, following him in, shutting the door again. They spend the brief lunch period swapping stories of the day. It’s sitting there while Malcolm devours his sandwich (and the plum) that she decides. She waits another day then calls the investment banker and lets him down easy. There was nothing wrong with him, really. They could’ve had a perfectly nice relationship for he _was_ perfectly nice. Just not perfect for her.

She sleeps better that night.

 

* * *

 

Not long after, she and Malcolm are walking in for another day and he’s lamenting the absence of missed calls on his phone. He sounds too regretful for either of their liking. The tone is gone so quickly she barely has time to reconcile how much it stabs at her chest to hear it. Then he asks about her own evening.

Sam tells him about getting a table as Mishkin’s and notes his surprised reaction. The details of his own evening are complete rubbish but they make her laugh, which was his point anyway. He smiles in that way she adores, in that way that makes her eyes linger a little too long on him and her cheeks go a bit pink. They’re interrupted by Ben Swain, which, she thinks later, might’ve been for the best. And you can’t often say that about Ben Swain.  

Malcolm comes by earlier than normal that day to snack and chat. She’s anticipated this. A quick look at his calendar told her all she needed to know. Meeting with Nicola later? Shadow Cabinet after that? He would be by early and in need of something extra nice.

So when he collapses into his customary chair she already has tea and homemade biscuits waiting for him. He reaches for both then pauses. “This tea is hot,” he says obviously.

“I know.”

“But how…” Sam smirks. “Fucking _woman of mystery_ ,” Malcolm says in an affected tone.

“My powers are not to be trifled with. You better be nice to me.”

He snorts softly into his tea and she grins. “Good biscuits too. Anyone else and I’d think you were after some fucking favor.”

“Maybe I am.” Her eyes sparkle playfully.

He shoots her a skeptical look over the rim of his cup and she nods knowingly. All she’d need to do is ask and he would grant her any favor at all. Of her many powers, that one scared her the most.

“And anyway, I didn’t make the biscuits. They’re from my mum.”

“Mmmmm,” he bites into another.

Today is more of a quiet time as Malcolm ruminates on whatever surely _vital_ information Ben has passed along. But when Malcolm does speak up it has nothing to do with Ben or Nicola or the party at all.

“Who were you at Mishkin’s with?” he asks suddenly.

“Hmmm?” Sam has been too busy enjoying her tea and biscuits and stealing surreptitious glances at the cut of Malcolm’s suit to register his question right away. The suit is one of his new ones. One of the unexpected positives of two years in Opposition has been seeing Malcolm’s traditionally skeletal appearance fill out just a tad. With that change came a new selection of suits better tailored to his long, skinny frame. He wore them well.  

“It’s a pretty posh place for a weeknight, isn’t it?”

The playfulness from earlier returns and blends with delight to make her tilt her head innocently. Her mother always said she was a mischievous child. It took working with Malcolm for her to realize just what she’d meant.

“No, I just- It’s a nice fucking restaurant is all. Christ, I haven’t been there since-” Malcolm shakes his head, clearing away whatever memory had been trying to take hold. He scratches his neck, mouth working on forming the right words, then gives up and says, “Just making conversation.”

She enjoys his embarrassed curiosity a moment longer, then nods at the biscuit he’s been unknowingly crumbling onto his plate. His impressive eyebrows knit together in confusion for another beat or two then relax when he figures it out.

“Oh!” He settles more comfortably into his chair, munching the broken biscuit, exhaling deeply. “Why didn’t you say your folks were in town? Could’ve given you some time off or something.”

“That’s alright, Malcolm,” she laughs. “They were here for a bit so we had plenty of time together.”  

He begins to respond but they’re interrupted by the droning sound of Ollie telling Helen they’re going to start early. Malcolm stands quickly, downing his last bit of tea and last bite of biscuit. “Sorry darling, I’m off to this fucking hellish meeting.”

She waves away his apology and shoos him out the door. He’s several steps gone when he quickly backtracks and pulls himself halfway in again. “Tell your mum those biscuits are fucking fantastic.”

A few days later Nicola goes off to prove why she is definitely not a quiet fucking batperson. Poor woman was frighteningly awful with the citizenry and somehow worse with fellow politicians. Malcolm has no sympathy but Sam can’t help pitying her just a little. Nicola was stuck in an endless cycle trying so hard to push through her social mobility dreams, the same dreams she’d had back at DOSAC. Fourth sector pathfinders apparently have capes now.

Sam wishes they had Malcolm’s old office with the TV where they would sometimes watch things like Remembrance Sunday together. Instead, Malcolm invites himself into Ben’s office and she does paperwork and answers emails while she waits for a report on whether Nicola Murray can in fact walk. The howls coming from Ollie and Helen are answer enough.

She happens by Ben’s office as Malcolm is standing to leave. He’s discarded his jacket, the bright white of his shirt somehow making his pale complexion look more appealing. A flush rises to her cheeks and she hurries back to her desk lest he catch her.

“Sam!”

Bollocks. 

“Malcolm! Sorry, you surprised me.”

“Ha! Only took seven fucking years. You alright? You look like Ben when he got caught wanking in the cupboard.”

“Lovely,” she says flatly as they walk in tandem towards their end of the world. “And what’s the verdict on Nicola’s ability to lay a wreath?”

“Christ, she can’t fucking walk! How can she lead a party if she can’t even fucking walk twenty paces without bungling it?” He grins tiredly at her, but there’s something brewing in his eyes behind those glasses.

“You’ve got a plan, though, haven’t you?” she asks, surprised at her boldness this late in the day and this close to a charmingly rumpled Malcolm.

The shark-toothed grin he favors flares onto his face. “Fucking right I do.”

“Probably best,” she says a little mournfully. Nicola had no idea what was on the horizon. Malcolm was firing up the old ways. Quiet Batpeople was just the beginning. That streak of mischief rears again and she can’t pretend she isn’t a little excited to have something more entertaining to do after two mostly boring years. Likewise, Malcolm’s grin broadens as he collects his things.  

“Heading out?" he says. "I’ll walk you.”

“Sure, but give me just a sec, would you?”

Suddenly enlivened, she hurries to her desk, shuts down her computer and gathers her bag and coat. Chatting with some junior staffer who has passed by, Malcolm waits patiently in the doorway, letting her finish up without intrusion. His hair is properly disheveled and his tie still hangs a bit loose. Even with his coat and jacket on, he still looks the most undone she’s ever seen him at the office. Upon reflection, perhaps that’s not a good thing though it does make quite a sight.

An image comes to her of what it would be like to see this side of him more often. To cuddle next to him at the end of the day and feel the warmth of his skin through the cool of that dress shirt. To muss his hair further with her fingers. To tuck her nose under those black-framed glasses and-

“Y’ready, love?”

He has turned towards her, a cheeky look on his face. Impossibly, she doesn’t blush, just clutches her bag a little tighter and heads with him to the carpark, a spring in both their steps.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any unexpected hotness in this chapter is the direct result of a) Peter Capaldi looking entirely too good in those glasses and b) elloette's fic, [Control](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6648187/chapters/15207847), which she wrote and published while I was writing this and the preceding chapters.


	9. Sam: Highs and Lows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended viewing for Chapter 9: Season 4, Episodes 4 & 5

Malcolm was rather impressive. It was a pity no one else ever really noticed. Nowadays, hardly anyone even gave him enough credit.

They all probably thought he performed some ritual, offered up a blood sacrifice, maybe promised the devil a soul, and demons did his bidding for him. Well… they weren’t entirely wrong. But Malcolm did his own legwork or pulled the right strings to make some puppet or another unknowingly do it for him.

His work didn’t go entirely overlooked, of course. It was hard to miss the results of his frequent and occasionally ferocious bollockings. His fingerprints were smudged on every policy, either from trying desperately to prevent its passing or from helping to shove it through. Yet no one seemed to appreciate the delicacy of his work, the finesse it took to undermine a politician while keeping yourself and your party safe. It was like removing a tiny, annoying splinter from someone else’s hand without them ever knowing you were there.

It was almost beneath Malcolm’s considerable talents and reputation to engineer Nicola’s downfall. It wasn’t the act itself; rather, that it hardly took any effort on his part. The best and worst thing about Nicola Murray was her ability to self-sabotage. Eight months had been Malcolm’s estimate but within five it was time.

Malcolm’s increasingly jubilant mood is Sam's first signal. His phone call this morning to order flowers for Nicola is only confirmation. Despite herself, Sam laughs a little at the message he requests for the card and has to confirm the last three words again. Giggles as she jots down “waste of skin.” Probably they were bad people.

The day is hectic and necessitates a kind of sneakiness she’s honed over her years. She knows tonight she’ll feel guilty but right now it’s hard not to let Malcolm’s excitement become her own. Maybe he was a bad influence on her. No, he _definitely_ was, but she could hardly complain. Part of her enjoyed the thrill. Their cause was a worthy one, after all.

Nicola wasn’t a horrible person, not really. Just a horrible politician and entirely useless to the electorate. She was about as tempting a candidate as a soggy biscuit. The poor woman was entirely out of her depth in every arena. Some politicians struggled with policy or public image or keeping their cocks out of controversy. Nicola struggled with everything (except perhaps, for obvious reasons, the latter).

The day of reckoning continues on and Sam, like so many others, is in a kind of stasis until Malcolm arrives with fresh orders. Late in the morning, electricity ripples through the air and the wary glances of staffers tell her Malcolm has returned from his hospital visit to Ollie. She finishes sending a few faxes and hurries back to her desk to grab a file. Yanking open the drawer, she freezes.

The file is there.

So is a flower.

A gerbera daisy by the looks of it. She lets her fingers fondle the petals gently. They were dark pink, almost ruby. The fresh scent drifts up to her and trickles all the way into her chest.

She snatches the file and snaps the drawer shut. Takes a quick glance around before exhaling in relief.

No one to see.

No one but the thin man at the end of the hall.

Staffers and aides bustle past him while he holds her gaze a moment. A smile is already tugging at Sam's lips and something is sticking in her throat. She holds the file a little tighter, a little closer. The ever present stack of papers in his own arms mimics the gesture and taps his chest. Then Malcolm ducks his head to one side, smiling boyishly for an instant, and hurries off.

The rest of the day is all dealmaking and the kind of lies Malcolm specializes in. She keeps a closer than normal eye on Malcolm’s email and practically skips to show him when Glenn’s message comes through. This is the final nail in Nicola’s coffin. It’s done. Months of planning and precise maneuvering come to fruition. Malcolm has won a large scale game of Operation. He’s removed an entire person without getting zapped.

Ben is cast adrift. Nicola is dead in the water. Malcolm is exultant. He is the proud conqueror again. Passing through on her way from one task to the next, she presses a Fanta into his hands. “You’re a fucking treasure, you know that? Thank you, Sam.” Her face hurts from smiling.

As everyone scrambles to prepare for the customary farewell, she returns to her desk to sort out details and paperwork Malcolm will need later. She really shouldn’t feel so delighted but Malcolm’s smiles were infectious. They most definitely _were_ bad people. But she’s hardly gotten through half of her list when-

“Sam, Sam, Sam!” He looks in a right state as he skids to a stop next to her desk.

“Malcolm what’s-”

“Can you check my tie? Fucker won’t cooperate and I’m as jittery as a first-time father out in the fucking waiting room.”

Rolling her eyes a little, she shakes her head but bats his hands away from the tie all the same. “You’re going to crumple it,” she says sharply. “It was fine earlier. Why are you fussing with it?”

“For this farewell do. My moment of fucking triumph!” His eyes light up at the word, hands gesturing emphatically next to her as she loosens the knot a smidge. “Christ, it feels good to be rid of that fucking hag. I haven’t felt this good in years!”

Chuckling softly, Sam smooths the tie and re-tightens it at his throat. Given the opportunity and just cause, she brushes over his collar. There’s no need; it’s perfect. But through it, she can confirm the heat of Malcolm's neck and the elevated beat of his pulse under her fingertips. Malcolm swallows a little roughly.

“Dan must be very pleased,” she says calmly, keeping them grounded even as she switches to needlessly brushing down his shoulders.

Malcolm snorts contemptuously.

For the first time since he blustered up to her desk, she raises her eyes to his. Something there makes her very aware of her hands still on his shoulders. She takes a step back and looks at him questioningly.

“Apparently over a decade of sweating spinal fluid for this party and almost single-handedly engineering the resignation of one of the worst leaders in history isn’t enough to earn me Mr. Dan ‘Prodigal Fucking Son’ Miller’s blind faith.” Malcolm’s voice was quiet and surprisingly measured.

“He wants me to ensure a clean sweep to the throne. Which is fucking insulting, really. Who the fuck does he think I am?” Malcolm fondles the perfect knot of his tie and smirks, missing the way her face falls a tad.

“First he tries to fucking test me with Ben. Now it’s the coronation he wants. Pomp and circumstance and a royal fluffer or whatever the fuck he thinks he should get.”

“Oh? I never thought Dan was the type.”

“I know. Ungrateful prick must’ve borrowed somebody else’s balls for the afternoon,” he quips, a sharp smile cuts across his face. “Lucky for him and for the party, my balls are firmly attached. I’ll get that side-parted, stuck up arse his crown and the royal panties to match.”

Nearby more people are starting to gather, and Malcolm glances at the clock. Passing a hand down his tie one final time, he says, “Anyway, thanks, darling. I’m off to earn my reward,” and sweeps out the door leaving a cheshire grin in his wake.

Cold clarity dulls any lingering thrill in her. All the while they had been so set on dislodging Nicola they had forgotten what a slippery weasel Dan was. The thought gnaws at Sam. It obviously wasn’t gnawing at Malcolm. Perhaps he was in too good a mood at the moment. Or maybe he thought this was it. If he got Dan elected, the party would be back in competent hands. His job would be done. His penance paid.

By all accounts, it’s going well. Malcolm has taken charge as he’s longed to do. For the first time since he was forced about by Steve Fleming, she sees him truly in his element. They fall back into that familiar staccato, communicating wordlessly, one mind on one mission. She even feels herself getting swept up along with him again.

It is not all doom and gloom for her. She takes pleasure in Malcolm’s pout when she refuses to acquiesce to his demand for sweets. In the late afternoon, she is hurrying past his war room when he calls out, “Sammy!” It’s been so long since he used that nickname, she instantly blushes. He stands too close to her and rattles off a list of requests, which she notes down while trying to hide a giggle. Sammy.

When she brings him a file or a fax, she lets her hand rest on his back. It’s a familiar gesture between them now, one that developed in Opposition. She can’t recall when only that it would feel foreign to do anything but let her fingers find his shoulder blade for a moment. It ought to be enough to quell her apprehension.

It isn’t.

Without a doubt, Dan was the right candidate for the job. Even at his worst, he would do better than Nicola. He would actually _do_ something, possibly even a good something. That didn’t mean, however, he was a decent human being. There was something robotic about him, like he’d been built in a lab to be a politician rather than being born a real person.

But that wasn’t the real concern, not for her. Her concern was Malcolm, always Malcolm.

And the skeptical squint of Dan Miller’s eyes and the pompous way his head tilted towards her boss told her enough. The anointed one planned to misuse Malcolm as much as his predecessors. Worse, she suspected Dan intended to bleed Malcolm dry and then toss his desiccated remains under the first bus he could find. Preferably one whose route led straight to a long tenure as Prime Minister.

Malcolm doesn’t notice. He is full of energy and a wickedness he’s had little reason to call upon in the past two years. The world revolves around him once more and that’s where he feels most at home. It’s what he craves. She can’t completely fault him for seizing this moment with both hands. He’s had so little to dive into, to enjoy, the last two years. The tragedy of that realization claws at her.

The next day the sinking feeling in her gut settles for good. Everything from the day before is amplified. Dan is even more pompous, Ollie more slimy, and Malcolm more exuberant.

That afternoon, murmurs crisscross the office that Glenn Cullen is in reception. Not a minute later, Ollie staggers that direction. She seizes the moment to catch Malcolm’s ear in private. Her timing is impeccable as always.

“Sam! Sam! Get me Stewart Pearson on the phone!”

Malcolm comes barreling out of his office and nearly collides with her. “Steady on, lass,” he says, grabbing her by the shoulders and looking her over in concern. “Y’alright?”

“Fine, fine, sorry, Malcolm,” she stammers. “I’ll get Stewart for you.”

As she dials, Malcolm paces beside her.

“Rumor is the PM is going to call for an expanded inquiry into the whole of leaking. That horse-faced cunt has no fucking clue what he’s asking for. And I’ll bet that bald stack of grassfed horse shit has no fucking idea what’s even happening in his own fucking party!”

After several rings, she shakes her head. Malcolm explodes again.

“That fucking hippie. I’ll walk over there, jam my fingers into his eyes and roll him all the way back here myself!”  

He hurtles off the same way she’d seen Ollie go. With a sigh, Sam sets to work. She could get Stewart on the phone. Malcolm had his methods; she had hers. A few well-placed calls is all it took. Malcolm’s name still made some people snap to attention even when said in her gentle, patient voice. She is already dashing after him when, a minute later, Stewart rings in.

She finds Malcolm on the stairs with Glenn and Ollie and stops short. On pain of the worst kind, Malcolm was not to be interrupted at moments like this. It was an unspoken rule. She wonders if even _she_ dares try.

Lingering just off to the side she tries not to listen. Overhearing Malcolm’s tirades and vicious honesty had never bothered her. She wouldn’t have lasted long if it had. Yet catching the end of Glenn’s verbal execution is hard to stomach. The man looked ready to shrivel up from despair. She glances at him and sees a man beaten down by the profession to which he’d dedicated himself. Her mind can’t help but see Malcolm’s own defeated posture from just two years ago.

That realization (and knowing Stewart was still on hold) makes her take a step forward so Malcolm finally sees her just as he delivers the final blow. He stomps up the stairs, so rabid with rage he doesn’t even dull his voice when he says, “Sam! What is it?”

“A call from Stewart Pearson.” She places a calming hand on his back as Malcolm eagerly reaches for the phone with both hands. He is almost vibrating with anger. For a fleeting second his long fingers cover hers around the phone. He’s so wound up he almost takes her hand with the device.

She shoots Glenn an apologetic look that she supposes means nothing to him and disappears quickly back up the stairs. Behind her, Malcolm starts in on Stewart, and she wonders if his opposite number can detect the edge of panic in his voice like she can.

An inquiry would be disastrous. It would be akin to handing over Malcolm’s diary. The culture of leaking was his life’s blood. It made his work possible. There was no spin control without it. There was no Malcolm Fucking Tucker without it.

There was also, apparently, no stopping the PM. Malcolm has hardly hung up with Stewart than the announcement comes through. Sam feels their world tilting.

As Ollie retreats to his makeshift desk and presumably wets himself, Malcolm motions her into his office. Huddled close together, she can see he’s felt the shift too. The ground he’s kept himself firmly planted on is starting to shake violently.

“Listen, Sam, we’re going to need to start pulling-”

She hands him a carefully written list. “How many more of these?”

“Good, lass,” he mutters, eyeing the list closely. “All the rest you’ve got here and also-” he scribbles additions to the bottom- “these, just in case.”

She nods and folds the paper back into her hands. They stand in silence, Malcolm’s posture unchanged. He’s folded in on himself, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, and head hanging low in thought or worry. The control he exerted yesterday is already evaporating and she sees the toll it is taking on him. She knows even without laying her cheek against his temple that his skin was too cool. But she’d like to make sure. Thinks it’d probably be a relief to them both if she did.  

“Why would the PM do this?” she whispers. “He must know it’ll implicate his own people.”

“Because he’s a fucking dunce is why!” He rubs roughly at his eyes, then his hair. _He’s cut it too short again_ , she thinks.

With a furtive glance at the closed door, Sam nudges closer. “Malcolm-”

“Don’t worry, darling,” he says urgently, shaking his head as if he’s been holding the words close all day. “This won’t come anywhere near you, I promise y’that.”

She straightens, eyes wide and mouth a little agape. Malcolm’s eyes meet hers and he hesitates before touching her wrist reassuringly. His voice drops even lower as fingers find her pulse. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“That’s not-”

A shrill ringing stops her. Malcolm releases her wrist with a small squeeze and snatches his phone. She is already slipping out the door as he sneers, “Stewart! Have time for me now, eh? Your chakras aligned? Finished rubbing your baldy head in meditation? Had a shot of fucking wheatgrass?”

 

 


	10. Malcolm: The Inquiry Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended viewing for Chapter 10: Season 4, Episode 6 
> 
> Working out the timeline of the inquiry was tricky. This chapter starts before Malcolm's first appearance and goes on from there. Unlike other chapters, I put in some dates and event summaries to help us all track the action, essentially. Hopefully, that's helpful.

 

For over a decade he had been surrounded by fuck ups and idiots. He’d seen ministers and politicians of every shape, size, and stupid. And somehow the PM had managed to surpass them all and crown himself the biggest twat ever to set foot in Westminster.

An inquiry into leaking. For once, Malcolm had to agree with Stewart; it was ludicrous. How on earth did anyone think they could even begin to fathom the culture and intricacy of his world?

From the first moment the announcement had been made, Malcolm had begun forming a strategy. There wasn’t just himself to consider but his party and their new leader. There was also a small horde of cuntfaced backstabbers waiting in the tall grass. He’d prepared for them. They’d tried to trample him before and he’d risen. They wouldn’t get the opportunity again. This inquiry wasn’t going to fuck him; he was going to _make_ it fuck everyone else. Rumblings about whatever scheme Stewart was squeezing together in his organic juicer did not concern him.

_There’s honor among thieves, after all,_  Malcolm thinks as he pilfers a few of Sam’s chips. They're all that’s left from the latest in their late night working dinners. _At least Burger Palace still seems to like me._ Though, that was probably down to Sam’s charms, of which Malcolm was perfectly aware. Too aware even. Lately, she had been more invaluable than ever. It seemed every time he had a sudden inspiration of something he needed, she was handing it to him before he’d even finished asking.

As difficult and fucking infuriating as this prep process had been, he couldn’t complain entirely. In the past few weeks, he’d been afforded far more manpower and autonomy than he’d experienced yet in Opposition. He’d also spent most nights of the week working in dim lighting with his charming, possibly clairvoyant assistant.

_It could be much worse,_ he concedes, and pops a few more chips into his mouth.  

“Stop stealing mine just because you ate all yours.”

“Fuckin’ christ!” He startles so severely he nearly dumps said chips all over the floor. “Could give an old man a heart attack sneaking up like that.”

Sam saunters into the room holding a fresh pile of photocopies and a well-earned smirk. “So could all those chips.”

“Pfff! You’ve been eating them right alongside me all these years and you look…”

She boldly raises her eyebrows at him and Malcolm coughs nervously. The smirk broadens but is tempered with a bit of pink on her cheeks. Joining her at their worktable he examines the enlarged front page from an issue of _The Guardian._

“You’re quieter than when I hired you too,” he mutters. “Didn’t used to sneak up on me so easily.”

“Forgot to mention on my CV. I’m a shapeshifter,” she quips as she snags the paper from his hands. He snorts, admiring the careful way she sets the paper in a folder with the others.

Caught up in discreetly eyeing her precision and the pale blue of the veins in her wrist, it’s a moment or two before he exclaims- “Hey! That’s one of my lines!”

Sam shrugs, unaffected, and grins without ever looking up. “It’s a good one. Fits too.”

Shaking his head, Malcolm retreats and gives her the space to do her thing. While she sorts the piles of papers (and discreetly slides him the remainder of her chips with only that same smirk as commentary) he can’t help but marvel at her.

He’s glad she had refused his order to go home and leave him to finish up. The truth was, for all his talents, organization was Sam’s expertise. He’d come to rely on her to keep his life finely tuned and he needed that now more than ever. The inquiry was another obstacle to clear and a particularly tricky one. The sense he’d gotten from everyone else who’d received orders to appear was fear. That was to be expected from a bunch of mincing cowards. But he didn’t feel like that. He was being careful, of course, but there was no fucking way this ended with his cock nailed to a crucifix.

The only thing that concerned him was Sam because Sam _was_ worried. He could see that in the anxious way she glanced at him when she thought he couldn’t see or her refusal to let him endure any of these long nights alone. It was pointless to reassure her, he knew, but he tried to anyway.

She’d offered to go over what he wanted to say but he’d refused flat out. That he had been firm on. Prepping folders and pulling files and getting his maimed ducks in a row he would allow. But when it came to him before the inquiry, Malcolm wanted her at a safe distance.  

Just in case.

He had promised to keep her out of it and, so far, he had. She had not been ordered to appear before the inquiry board and he would keep it that way. Besides, he felt fairly proud of his chosen strategy.

Honesty was the best policy for when you were eventually going to lie. He would give the inquiry a forbidden behind the scenes look at the world of leaking. Make them feel important, privileged. An example or two to lay the groundwork, get them to understand what it took to do this job, and then turn the fucking tables on them. Use them as a ladder to separate himself from the rest of the sad sack mouth breathers that dared associate with _his_ profession.

He finishes off the remainder of Sam’s chips just as she finishes his folder. As she crosses the office to lay it with the other materials he’ll need tomorrow, her eyes flash to him then away again.

“I think that’s everything,” she says proudly. “Unless you want-” Malcolm holds up a hand- “alright then.”

She sways there next to his desk for a few seconds, either building up to something or waiting. He’s not sure which. “It’s alright, Sam. You can go on home; I’m nearly done here.”

She nods but he can tell he’s missed the mark. He walks the few paces between them and stands in front of her. This close he can see her wringing hands even as she tries to hold them still. He wants to stay them with his own. “Sam, there’s no need to-”

“But I am.” Her eyes are on his in an instant, wide and almost pleading, her mouth tight. “I can’t help it, Malcolm. I’m worried for you.”

He sighs in frustration, his own hands clenching in his pockets. There is an obvious strain around her eyes and lips. It grates at him like gravel over a fresh wound. It would not do.

“Just…trust me.” He dares to take a step closer and, without any thought to it, covers her hands with one of his own. A few of his fingers tuck around to press into the exposed sliver of her palm. Sam lets out a shaky breath. “Trust me, yeah?”

The moment stretches and bleeds into the next until finally, she nods. Malcolm releases her hands and is surprised to discover he’d been holding onto them rather more tightly than he’d planned. They speak no more of worries as he packs several things to take home with him. But he watches her closely, willing her to believe him. He knew what he was doing; he had this in hand.

 

* * *

**_The evening of June 18, after Malcolm’s appearance before The Goolding Inquiry_ **

* * *

 

“Ok, what the fuck is going on?”

“What?” Eyebrows furrowed, Sam looks up from her plate.

They were meant to be celebrating. At least, that’s what he’d intended when he’d picked up Italian food and brought it back to the office for them both, waving her into his office like the old days. Everything had gone almost perfectly to plan. He’d emerged unscathed and scored some strong points for himself and, more importantly, the party. But this celebration was decidedly less enthusiastic because of Sam’s evident lack of enjoyment.

“You’ve hardly touched your pasta and you haven’t had any of this bread.” He doesn’t mention the mango still sitting on her desk from earlier in the week. It hadn’t moved from where he’d carefully set it.  

Sam swirls her fettuccine around before finally coming out with it. “I think you need to be more careful.”

“Of what?” he says around a bite of food.

“The inquiry. You were terribly… cavalier today. I knew some of what you had planned but…” Sam pokes around at her pasta as his eyebrows contract in displeasure. “I’m just concerned about what’s-” her lips purse in search of the right word- “developing.”

“What are you on about? I know everything that’s happening in that fucking room. They’ve got the video available and your reports are filling in every blank needed. Honestly, Sam, you’re outdoing-”

“Malcolm.” She tilts her head at him beseechingly.

“Yeah, okay, maybe I was a bit... but s’alright. I know what I’m doing.”

“But Stewart and everyone from-”

Malcolm waves his fork dismissively. “Don’t worry about those wankers and pisspots.”

Sam did not seem convinced.

“Look,” he says, his tone measured but bright as he refocuses on his pasta, “I’ve got this sorted. Everything is under control. I promise you.”

She swallows thickly and takes a bite of pasta. “You did come across much better than Stewart and his bunch,” she says after a moment.

“Yeah, well, that’s because I’ve got a fucking brain not a deflated football or fucking kale salad or whatever’s tossing around in Stewart’s head, the melon-headed moron.”

Sam giggles, a smile finally appearing, and something in him sighs in relief.

 

* * *

**_July 3, after Malcolm's second appearance before The Goolding Inquiry,_ **

_**where his apparent possession of Mr. Tickel’s insurance information was revealed** _

* * *

 

His door clicks quietly open and shut. The office is dark but for the lamp on his desk. It hardly mattered. He’d know that silhouette anywhere.

“It’s going to be fine.” The words are for her and for himself but are directed at his desk. “I can handle this. Those fuckers on the inquiry, they don’t- They know fuck all about what I do, about how this all works. They haven’t even got actual proof-”

But Sam is stepping forward, arms crossed, shaking her head at his words. “Malcolm…”

The word is heavy with disappointment. The fire crackling in his chest threatens to burn through him at the sound of it. He’d been choking on the smoke ever since the full photo from _The Guardian_ had been thrown up on the board.  

“One photo means nothing. Fucking _nothing._ They can’t possibly think they’ll- and besides what would they even be able to do? Slap me on the wrist for doing my fucking job? There’s no weight to it, Sam, it’s-”

“ _Malcolm._ ” His eyes stop frantically darting around the room and he looks at her properly for the first time. Her gaze is unwavering and bores straight into him. “Stop _.”_

But he can’t. Not for a moment. If he did it would all settle in, this new reality, and the embers of his career would begin to drift away. “No, I can fix this. I just need-”

“ _Malcolm_.” She shakes her head. His brain is wildly trying to shove words into his mouth but everything tastes of ash. “I know you think if you can just secure the party’s future, you’ll be free to leave or retire or go on an actual fucking vacation.”

“That’s not-”

“I don’t know what you want to do-” Sam says over him, in no way ready to give him back the floor- “but I know you want to make things right first.”

Jaw clenched, she looks at him pointedly. He nods curtly in agreement.

“I don’t blame you for wanting that,” she continues. “You know I don’t. But this… They aren’t going to just let you go. They won’t.”

He begins to protest but Sam’s voice muscles him down again. The act is so unlike her it makes him step back. He blinks away a sting in his eyes.

“Every person at that inquiry has something against you and you _know it_. And they’ll use it to save their skins. You can’t bribe, coerce, and inveigle everyone and you certainly can’t do that to the entire inquiry board.”

“You don’t think I know?” he interjects. “I know that perfectly fucking well!”

“Then why aren’t you acting like it?” she says in accusation. “Opening the floodgates and using everyone else’s dark shit to cover some of your own? Implicating a member of the inquiry? Malcolm, that’s- that’s not you.”

“The fuck it isn’t!” He slams his fist into the desk. Sam barely flinches. “I’m what this job has made me! Whatever the cost, whatever it takes, you don’t give in, you don’t let yourself be fucked. They tried before and failed and I won’t let them do it this time, Sam, I won’t.”

“But what good can this possibly _do_?” she fires back, her voice rising. “You’re only inciting them _more_! The Baroness isn’t going to be kept away for long. You can’t make this disappear, Malcolm. You can’t sprinkle fucking fairy dust and wish it away.”

“You are dangerously close to crossing a line, darling,” he says, voice unnervingly steady despite the rage of emotion threatening to spill out.

Sam’s eyes hold his a beat then look away. She shakes her head again, slowly this time. When she speaks, he can’t mistake the catch in her voice. “I’m just-”

“I told you not to fucking worry.” Shame pierces him at the sharpness of his tone.

“And I told you I can’t help it.” Sam’s eyes are glistening but she keeps any tears at bay. He can’t hold her gaze for fear of what it might do to him.

“You promised me,” she says quietly. “You said you had this under control, you said-”

“I know what I said,” he snaps.  

“Then why?” Sam shoots back, arms and hands jerking in emphasis. “What were you doing? Why did you-”

“Look, I’ve told you I can manage this,” he says in that same sharp voice. He can’t seem to dull it. “There’s no need for you to stay here.”

Sam looks taken aback. “What do you mean? Of course there is.” She squares herself to him, feet firmly planted, hands on her hips. Any other time the gesture would be reaffirming to him, it would ground him, but he’s too far gone.

“Sam, please, just go.” His heart is beating anxiously, his head growing lighter by the moment, his control slipping, and he must get her out the door before it’s completely gone.

“No, Malcolm. I’m staying. That’s my job.” _Her_ voice was the steady one now.

“I never asked you for that,” he says harshly, panic overpowering him. “Is that what you’re concerned about then? Your job?” He’s wrong and he knows it and Sam shakes her head angrily but he barrels on, unable to stop himself. “Because I’d take care of you, you know-”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But I would, Sam, if that’s what’s got you in this state-”

“Of course it’s not! The job doesn’t _fucking_ matter to me, Malcolm! _You_ matter to me!”

The words ring through his office startling them into silence. They seem to have burst from her against her will. She stares at him unblinkingly.

They are both panting, their chests heaving in unison. Heat pulses along his spine. The fire in his chest had spread through every vein, every nerve. His skin is crackling with it. By the looks of it, so was hers. A flush had spread over Sam's face and neck without him even realizing.

Malcolm’s eyes are fierce, focused, as an idea, a dangerous idea, pushes at his brain, making him take a step towards her, a step she mirrors. The sound of their ragged breathing seems to amplify with every centimeter nearer they get. He doesn’t stop approaching, his eyes fixed on hers, until their slow progress is unbearable to him. He closes the distance in one last step and nearly sighs in relief to be breathing the same air as her. Her eyes are still glistening, her jaw set.

No part of them touches. Not even the ends of their shoes. But he can feel every minute movement, every twitch of her fingers, every rustle of fabric at every shallow breath. Air rushes over and through him in waves so fast it feels like drowning and yet he’s anxious for more. Desperate for more. Words desert him entirely. They do not desert her.

“Malcolm...” Her voice is not her own. With effort, she swallows, her tongue just peeking out to touch her bottom lip. The unconscious gesture makes his chest do a complicated kind of drop.

For several seconds, he can’t peel his eyes from her lips, not even to see if she minds. When he does, he sees the flush on her neck and face is even deeper than before. He wonders how warm she would feel under his lips. He thinks maybe she’s wondering the same.

The phone on his desk trills cruelly, seeking to shatter their atmosphere.

But neither looks away. They are frozen in one another’s stare.  

The phone trills again, somehow louder the second time. On instinct, he flinches towards it.

“Don’t answer it,” Sam whispers, all anger gone from her voice. His heart rages wildly.

The phone rings again and again, unending in its insistence. He can feel it pulling him in, a weight pulling his head down and eyes away from Sam.

He takes a step back.

“Don’t,” Sam says again, stopping him. He badly wants to obey her. She leans forward as if to close the distance between them once more but decides not to.

A few quick strides and he’s back to his desk. He grabs the phone, trusting himself only to say, “Tucker.” The call is brief and requires nothing except to listen and say, “Thank you,” at the end.

“I’ve been ordered back before the inquiry tomorrow afternoon,” he says, replacing the handset. He sniffs and rubs a hand over his face, shakes his head to clear his thoughts and let them fall back into where he needs them. Sam hasn’t moved but to drop her eyes to the floor.

“I want you to stay out of this. Keep going to the inquiry like you’ve been. But don’t….” he looks away from her a moment, considering his words. “Let me handle this on my own.”

Sam nods sadly. “Sure,” she says, the word cracking a little. It takes her two attempts to clear her throat before she’s able to clearly say, “Sure, Malcolm.”

Then she is out the door and gone and he’s left alone. Like he wanted.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 coming soon!


	11. Sam: The Inquiry Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended viewing for Chapter 10: Season 4, Episode 6
> 
> I'd also highly recommend watching that episode and paying close attention to Sam. It'll break your heart.

 

The first year she worked for Malcolm she’d learned a series of things in rapid order. He was usually the cleverest person in the room. Everyone was terrified of him to some degree, even Jamie. He hated onions, incompetence, and tuxedos. Even though he liked his coffee very, very black, he liked his tea very, very sweet. He enjoyed shouting more than anything.

Yelling was hardly new to her in this profession. True, Malcolm’s was unique but it had never put her off. Maybe it was because though she’d had previous employers who hollered at her for this and that, Malcolm always yelled _for_ her, never _at_ her.

The closest he came was one day when she had insisted on helping him with one of his schemes to gently unseat a troublesome minister. When she playfully refused to let him sort the problem on his own, he’d snapped at her. Even though every day that she’d known him had been filled with his loud, angry, sweary voice, the reprimand struck her. She’d taken a step away and Malcolm had noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re doing a fantastic job, lass. But this I’ve got to do myself.”

She’d nodded and left him to his work.

Two days later was the one-year anniversary of the day she’d been hired. She didn’t expect anyone to remember; she hardly remembered herself until she was stepping off the Underground. Yet somehow Malcolm did.

The man who would neglect to eat if left unchecked for too long, who had a mind overflowing with names, faces, and more political knowledge than the rest of Number 10 combined, remembered her hire date.

On her desk that day was a tasteful bouquet of small roses. Light and dark pink mixed with lavender ones that would’ve matched the blouse she wore to her interview. A note scrawled in Malcolm’s untidy hand was thrust between the blooms.

_Glad you haven’t been scared off. Thanks._

That night as she helped him save the PM’s arse for what already felt like the umpteenth time, she made a decision. She could trust Malcolm Tucker, implicitly. She would stick by him, thick or thin, and do whatever he asked.

Since that day, she’d never wavered, never regretted binding herself to him. It’s that loyalty that compels her to return to the inquiry and watch as Malcolm is whittled away. It is the hardest thing he’s ever asked her to do.

Without even thinking, for the first time she takes a seat in the front. Robin and Terri turn and wave at her as they start their testimony. Her mouth twists into something resembling a smile. She can’t remember how to call a real one to her face. Even watching Ollie squirm gives her no pleasure.

In many ways, the inquiry was a joke. There was no way to get into the “culture of leaking” without digging through a heap of shit no one wanted to confirm or deny. The problem was it also held so many futures in the balance, none more so than Malcolm’s.

She had to hand it to Stewart. Though Sam had never had any particular respect for the man, for once he had played his hand perfectly. She had no idea how but he’d managed to rally his team around two singular ideas and they’d stuck to them. First, Terri was an immovable, incompetent blockage. Second, Malcolm was the man the inquiry board really wanted. One by one Adam, Emma, Phil, and the others had presented a rather impressively united front.

She wasn’t naive. She knew Malcolm went to extreme lengths sometimes. He was guilty of quite a lot, maybe even what he’d been accused of in this room. But she also knew he had willingly given every atom of his being to this government and they’d let him. Encouraged it. And all the while they’d been playing a different game, a kind of horrific form of Jenga. They’d taken turns methodically pushing a blade into Malcolm’s chest and waiting to see how long until he toppled over dead.

They had done it so slowly over so long a period, he’d hardly noticed most of the time. His body had accepted the steel as part of itself, growing around the weapon even as it crept closer to his heart until eventually, it pierced that too. And still, Malcolm soldiered on, determined to do his duty. Now the moment had come to finish what they’d begun and impale him on his own ceremonial sword.

At the inquiry, as soon as he enters the room, Sam's eyes are on him. Malcolm looks to everyone else like a man once more in control. The bravado of his walk and in his posture were enough to fool them. But not her. All day a sense of dread has been calcifying on her heart and now she sees the same cloud over him as well.

As he pulls out his chair, he turns to her and smiles so widely it almost hurts not to reciprocate. All she can do is gaze at him sorrowfully, her face already a picture of grief. It is a struggle to keep looking at him as he takes his seat. There had been something fractured in his expression and she worries her lips in consternation. She thinks maybe she shouldn’t have sat so close.

When he accuses his colleagues and rivals of leaking and of cheating to get ahead, everyone in the room knows he is right. But it means nothing. The inquiry has found someone to crucify and they won’t give him up. While he desperately attempts to wriggle free, Sam begins to feel sick. The air in her lungs is acrid, spilling a sour taste into her mouth. It takes every ounce of fortitude within her to stay in her seat. Her lips fall open as she gulps for air.

Malcolm’s self-assurance is razor thin and soon the inquiry has pierced it. When he begins to break so does something inside her. The falter in his voice, his composure, is like a stab under her ribs. He crumples, letting loose so much he’d held in all these years. Behind him, she slumps a little in her chair.

Under other circumstances, it would make her proud to see Malcolm call out cowards and lambast hypocrites. But all she can do is duck her head to her chest as a tide of tears threatens to overtake her. Every steadying breath has the opposite effect until she’s sure the people next to her can hear her sniffling. At the end, she feels ragged as though she’s survived a feat of endurance simply by sitting here the past few minutes.

They are dismissed upon the conclusion of Malcolm’s testimony but it takes her too long to extract herself from the room. Malcolm has disappeared. She lets her feet carry her anywhere that is away and is unsurprised to land in front of Malcolm's office, the door closed.

Sam lays her palm on the rich wood and considers what to do. She doesn’t want a repeat of the previous night. Doesn’t have it in her anymore. Laying her forehead against the door, her mind is flooded with memories as though the door were a conduit to 24 hours ago.

When she’d gone home last night she’d felt drained and raw. She’d slept fitfully as she could not help dwelling on all that had transpired. And what almost had.

The stifling heat of the room still clung to her skin even after a shower. As she laid in bed staring up at her ceiling she’d replayed the fight again and again. She’d never raised her voice to him like that and a part of her felt ashamed for having done it now. Yet she couldn’t regret it entirely. She was disappointed in him, having always expected better even when everyone else expected the worst, but it was the overpowering worry that had propelled her onward. Her own words still rang in her ears.

_You matter to me._

_You._

They were out there now, those words, and there was no mistaking them. Malcolm’s reaction had been so unexpectedly visceral that she’d hardly had time to think of snatching them back. He’d stalked towards her almost predatorily and she’d matched every step. When they were close enough that a full breath might cause them to touch, all logical thought deserted her. There was no space for it when her head was filled with Malcolm’s aftershave, his heat, the brazen look on his face.

She’d said his name without thought. It was the only word she possessed.

Even though she’d stared at him unblinkingly, she’d been looking at all of him at once. The quickened rise and fall of his chest and shoulders. Flushed skin, almost glowing with warmth and so different from its usual pale blue. Lips full and pink and wet. Gaze lingering on her mouth.

It had been dangerous and exhilarating all at once. Her heart had felt tumultuous. It still did.  

Thinking on it now, the experience felt more like a fevered dream than a memory. She almost wished it were.

On the other side of the door, she thinks she hears footsteps. Stepping back she waits, but the door remains closed. She sighs in disappointment, having hoped the decision whether to enter would be made for her. When she considers leaving him alone to be eaten alive by his thoughts, she understands the decision _had_ already been made. She’d made it a long time ago. Easing open the door, she steps inside.

The lights are low and the silence is unnerving. The air feels almost unnaturally cold and she shivers. Malcolm’s back is to her as he leans onto the one hand on his desk. The door clicks closed behind her. She’s at a loss for what to say and for some reason that makes shame swell in her abdomen. Seconds, then minutes, creep past but still, no words come to her. It’s Malcolm who finally speaks.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s going to be okay.” It’s unclear if the words are for her or himself. She’s not sure if he even knows she is in the room.

“I’ve handled bigger fuck-ups than this. This is….” The sentence is caught in his mouth and he winces painfully. She starts forward but hesitates. Sam can count on one hand the number of times she’d been at a loss with this man but this moment is one of them. In an instant, there are tears in her eyes. Arms crossed and hugging herself tightly, she holds fast to her composure.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” Malcolm continues as though she’d posed a question. “It’s- it’s going to be a right fucking mess no matter what. But I don’t even know if they’ll…”

He trails off to wipe at his face and she looks away, his embarrassment palpable. They both sniffle quietly and when Malcolm next speaks, his voice is stretched thin. “Stay clear of it all. I don’t want you involved in anything. Please… at least let me do that.”

She nods numbly though he does not see. The air between them is so still. There’s no familiarity to grasp. It feels as if they are strangers enduring a shared tragedy. A chasm of grief is opened between them, opened in her very chest, and she feels as if it might swallow her whole.

“Say something,” Malcolm spits suddenly, head turning towards her. He doesn’t meet her eyes. “For Christ sake’s, fucking say something, I can’t-”

He leans more heavily on his hand while the other covers his face.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally. It is the only thing she can think to say.

The words offer no comfort. Malcolm turns his head away again, both hands roughly rubbing over his face and hair several times before the one retakes its place on the desk. Like if he weren’t touching it, his knees might buckle. The shaking rise and fall of his chest is enough to break her heart. Once she would’ve given anything to calm it.

No sooner has she thought the words than she dismisses them. She still would.  

She approaches cautiously the way you would towards an animal caught in a trap. When she’s directly behind him, close enough to hear the hitch in his breathing, she pauses. Even in the dim light, she can see red marks on the back of his neck where he’d scratched in frustration. Heat radiates from his back. He is the only warm thing in the whole office.

There are still tears in her eyes. She gasps at the feeling of them and Malcolm’s ears prick at her proximity.

“Sam…” he says, curling into himself. The hand on the desk clenches into a fist. “Don’t.”

_Why not?_ she wants to say. Surely it would be a comfort to him? To them both?  The nape of his neck, dark curls resting there, is at just the right height. The feel of his slight frame in her arms is emblazoned in her memory. It would take no effort at all.

“Don’t,” he says again, the word sounding wrenched from his mouth.

Two tears slide down her cheeks as she reaches instead to rest a hand on top of his fist, willing her warmth and calm into him. It takes every drop of willpower not to wrap her arm around his waist and pull him to her.

Malcolm turns just enough that he could see her over his shoulder if he wanted to. His eyes are shut tight, cheek pressing just as tightly into his jacket. The yawning pit of despair within her widens further still.  

“I’ll do as you said, Malcolm. But I want you to know…”

She sniffs back the lingering tears. Her hand adjusts to fit more securely, press down more firmly. Her fingertips find the seams of his fingers. Their wrists rest one atop the other. At her side, she clenches her other hand tightly, quelling the urgent desire to hold him properly. They are close enough that she could whisper and be heard perfectly. But when she continues, she says the words in a low, clear tone.  

“I’m still with you. I’m still here with you.”

She waits for the words to sink in, refusing to let him go until she’s sure he’s heard her. Long seconds tick by, until finally, almost imperceptibly, Malcolm nods. She squeezes his fist, her thumb pushing in just a tad, seeking to hold him as much as he will allow. How she wishes he would let her do more.

It’s then his hand relaxes, not much, but enough to let her thumb sneak in and push at his cold, clammy palm. Air heaves out her as if she’d been holding her breath all this time. Still she does not let him go.

Sam knows this is not a goodbye. She will see him again, tomorrow even. Yet a clawing sense of loss snags her heart. She doesn’t necessarily regret their fight, only the circumstances that brought it to be, but she cannot bear it may well be one of their last moments together. An urge to make _this_ moment count roars within her.  

Her eyes take in all of him again and again. Body too lean, shoulders sharp and pointed. His shoulder blades are like knives under his jacket and yet smooth to touch, she remembers. Arms long and deceptively strong. Hair sticking up at the back like it always did when he was too rough with his fingers. She never did find out how it felt under her own. Skin too pale and drawn and yet it had always felt cool and comforting against her.

The feel of his cheek on hers, the line of his jaw, and his lips in her hair beg to be recalled, renewed. All of the soft places he’d hidden from everyone else. Were they hers? In this moment, this last moment before their world was irrevocably altered, she wishes she knew for sure.

Several more seconds pass before his own thumb reaches up to press hers an instant. He nods again, more pronounced. She knows it is time to leave and yet she is rooted to the ground. _Let us stay here_ , she thinks. _Enough. Give us this._

Malcolm shifts in the way she knows means he is impatient. He needs her to go.

Her hand loosens. She drags her fingers lightly between his knuckles and swirls them around to the inside of his wrist to find the beat of his pulse, to confirm he was still here, that not all was lost. Malcolm exhales deeply, his eyes barely shut now, and nods a third time.

It’s only then she slips away and out the door.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to take a moment to recognize the tireless efforts and patience of my beta, elloette. While all of you fabulous readers are getting to enjoy this story a week at a time, she had to wait weeks and sometimes months between chapters because it took me that long to write. And yet her enthusiasm for this story never wavered. She's the actual best. 
> 
> Anyway. Chapter 12 coming soon.


	12. Malcolm: Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this isn't a happier chapter for Valentine's Day. I wish it were. Thank you, as always, to elloette for helping me figure out the tricky parts, for your fantastic beta skills, and your excellent ideas, even when they made way more work for me. 
> 
> Recommend viewing for Chapter 12: Season 4, Episode 7

  

Late on the couch one night several years ago, Malcolm had seen a nature documentary about polar bears. Because of changes to their ecosystem, the bears were forced to roam further and further from home to find food. One polar bear the documentary followed had desperately attacked a herd of walruses. The TV illuminating his face, Malcolm had watched as the male polar bear failed to bring down a single walrus. They were too powerful and thick skinned. In the process, the bear had been repeatedly stabbed by their long tusks. Exhausted, injured, and starving, he had given up and laid down to die.

When Malcolm walks into his house the evening after he’s arrested, he crumples against the door. He lays there, expressionless, until the dull buzzing in his head puts him to sleep. _I’m finished_ , is his last thought.

 

* * *

 

The next morning it takes him a long time to realize the buzzing was not only in his head anymore. Malcolm ignores the call from the lawyer and hauls himself to his feet. Outside, he hears reporters stirring in the early morning hours. There had been fewer than he’d anticipated when he got home last night. With no words left to say and no reason to say them, he’d woven through the encampment and shut the door behind him without comment.

As he makes his way upstairs now, he peels off his jacket and tie. They land on his bedroom floor as he climbs into bed. He piles the blankets on but no amount of pressure is tight enough.

The house is a tomb. Everything within is already dead and has been waiting for him all these years. In every space there are furniture, possessions, and remnants of a life that had grown dusty with disuse. So much feels unfamiliar. He walks through the detritus touching and trying everything. An amnesiac rediscovering his own life. A light in the second bathroom flickers faintly. One of the back burners on the stove doesn’t work. The door to the hallway closet sticks.

He picks up books and movies he’s sure he must’ve purchased or at least set on the shelves. Most of them look brand new. He drags his fingers along the spine of a volume of _Macbeth_ and tries to conjure a memory of reading it. All he can think of is Sam giving him the book for his birthday, cheeks reddening as he grinned broadly at her in thanks. He snaps the book closed and drops it on the couch.

Time rushes towards him and away again like waves crashing onto the shore only to retreat moments later. He stands in the sand and feels the water pound against him one moment, then slip down his ankles the next.

He is so used to the Blackberry in his palm that he neglects to look at his watch even though it’s the only timepiece on him now. He’d given the Blackberry to his lawyer after leaving the police station (it was government property after all) but that didn’t stop people from calling. His lawyer, for one. Malcolm had finally sent the expensive asshat a text asking him to call the landline with whatever he needed. The next day the lawyer left a message on the landline, as requested, and had been silent ever since. Malcolm’s personal cell lay dead on his kitchen table.

But Kara was not so easily dissuaded.

The shrill ring of the landline reverberates long after it has grown silent and his sister swears at him in her messages, promising she’ll show up on his doorstep if he doesn’t answer. Eventually, he starts answering if only to stop the noise. He senses she is waiting, arms outstretched, to catch him mid-fall off the wagon. It’s fucking irritating but he can hardly blame her. So he digs deep into his reserve of patience and reassures her he’s in no danger. And every time it’s the truth but he can still never keep his eyes open lest he catch a glimpse of his reflection. The man staring back at him was unrecognizable.

There is a scorching anger in him but it has nowhere to go except into himself. He doesn’t eat. He orders takeout sometimes but finds it hard to face the carrier at the door. His hair grows and he spends days without shaving until he has facial hair for the first time in decades. It’s rough and chafing and he trims it every so often but otherwise lets it scratch at his skin.

He wants to feel dangerous, to feel hate and rage and all the things that have fueled him for so long. He wants to tear himself apart. He wants to roar and shout and scream and swear. But he can’t. He has no energy for it, for any of it, no stomach for the fight, even with himself.

He is empty. No, even that was too full a word. It’s hollowness. Loss to the most fundamental degree. A hollow man in a hollow house.

Still the anger burns and burns everything it touches to ash and dust. His heart and lungs are left as gritty remains. With nothing left to consume, the anger sizzles into sorrow.

His eyes begin to feel heavy throughout the day. Something behind them is waiting for nightfall until he drags himself beneath the heavy blankets on his bed. Every time he does, the sheets feel stale and frigid, as though no one had slept there in years. Some nights he cannot bear the feel of them and stays on the couch instead.

And when he is lying awake, staring at his ceiling or the dormant television, he thinks of all the sacrifices he’d made for the sake of his job, for the state.  He had killed every friendship in favor of strategic alliances. He’d abandoned all hope of a family when he’d chosen politics over his wife too many times and she’d left him. He hadn't wasted his life; he’d sold it, given it away to be molded. Now every accomplishment had dissolved before him into mist drifting past his tombstone. There for a moment, then gone.

On the quietest nights, he thinks of Sam the night they’d fought. Tears in her eyes and anger on her lips. Hands gesticulating in a very un-Samlike manner. Her voice piercing him with every word even when her tone was soft. Skin and chest pulsing with a fire that matched his own.

They had been so close. Her breath had been on his face, his neck, his mouth. Then, her sweet, round face shattering in front of him as he’d sent her away. It may not have been their last encounter or the last time he’d seen her, but it felt that way to him now.

He thinks and thinks and thinks until his sinuses are burning and his head pounding with the effort to keep from crying. Then he sobs silently into his arm, ashamed even though he is entirely alone.

As much as he’d hoped for it, he knew a graceful or proud exit was always unlikely in his position. In decades of service, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen it done. Still, he had hoped and done everything in his, at one time, considerable power to engineer that kind of departure for himself. It was all for naught.

Before, he’d held on to some wispy hope and it had eventually solidified in his hand. There would be no second chance this time. He’d run the political rat race until he was dry and spent, professionally impotent and no progeny to hold up as a trophy for all his service.

During the day, he couldn’t cry. The eerie silence of the house was too knowing. But at night, he can’t stop the tears. Decades of them pour out of him uncontrollably. And eventually, they start to douse the smouldering fire within him.

After weeks, he is surprised one night when the tears stop before he’s exhausted himself to sleep. He lays there waiting for them to restart, wanting them to, until he starts to feel stupid. He gets up and wanders downstairs in search of something to do. That’s how he finds the papers and folders and files strewn about from all his years of government service. Was he even allowed to have these here? Fuck knows. Probably not.

He piles all of them, and anything else potentially government related, into one corner of the living room. It would take some effort to sort through and organization was never his strength. But he does his best, creating separate piles that he hopes make sense to him later. He doesn’t know if any of this might be necessary for his case.

 

* * *

 

It gets easier to move through each day. The weeks of bawling his fucking eyes out has loosened something in him and he doesn’t try to knot it up again. Kara and his mother urge him to visit them. They are worried about him all alone in his dim house.

“You should be with family,” his sister urges. “The kids would love to see you. They miss their Uncle Malc.”

“I know,” he says, wearily.

“Come stay for just a few days. Get out of that dump of a city and come home, Malcolm.”

He tells her he’ll consider it. And he does. It’s been two years since he last visited and he knows it might be a relief to leave London behind him. But a nagging part of him knows it would only be running away. Unless he was going to move back to Scotland, all of this would still be waiting for him when he returned. He’d rather sort through it all now.

He calls Kara the next day and assures her he’ll be fine. When that doesn’t work, he tells her it would probably be bad PR for him to confess to a crime and then swan off to another country, even one still in the UK. She, and later his mother, begrudgingly agree and extract from him the promise of a visit as soon as he can manage it.

He sleeps a lot or tries to. Laying there for an hour or more, his mind unused to settling down so simply without the pull of exhaustion. He keeps the house silent. It feels wrong any other way. Once, out of habit, he’d turned on the TV but one flash of himself at the police station sent him scrambling to click the set off again. At his sister’s suggestion, he’d tried music but the intrusion was almost revolting to him. He doesn’t want his thoughts to be smothered. He doesn’t want to sort them. He wants to be left alone with them, to let them bury him.

But without the relief of sleep or the catharsis of crying, the thoughts simply become too much. So he gets up to find something at least to do with his hands if not his mind. He reorders the bookshelves and makes a stack of movies to watch and novels to read. Kara keeps insisting she is going to buy him a Kindle for Christmas but he likes the feel of the books. Their rough covers and the accomplishment of setting one down, finished.

He returns to the pile of government papers often for nostalgia’s sake as much as to try to organize them. Among them, he finds an old gift from Cal ‘The Fucker’ Richards. Despite what everyone thought, they actually had a fairly good relationship. Cal was barking mad but the kind Malcolm respected. Often he’d felt they were the only sane ones left.

The leather bound journal is completely unused and brand new but for a few scuff marks. Inside the prick had written, “For all your useless fucking ideas, murder plots, skeletons, and sausage recipes. Much love, Cal.” Malcolm is both amused and genuinely touched. On nights when his mind feels like it might burst, he puts his thoughts into the journal instead. Regrets and frustrations, losses and triumphs. Mistakes. Memories. Sam.

Sam.

The last time he’d seen her it had been from a distance. On his way to be arrested, he’d stopped at her desk. He didn’t know why. Still doesn’t. It was by his order that she stayed as removed as possible from his headlong dive into the shit heap. And yet, disappointment stung him when he’d found her chair empty. Unable to stay long, he’d glanced around quickly before walking away.

That’s when he’d seen her. Down the hall, one hand on her hip, the other on the desk of a co-worker. They were clearly working out the precise wording of a document or email. He’d stood there simultaneously willing her to turn and see him and begging her not to until it was clear she wouldn’t and he needed to leave.

He tries so hard not to think of her. But he does. He thinks himself into spirals until he is dizzy with questions.

What was she doing now? Had she stayed to work for Ollie or taken another job in government? Was she watching on the telly as he’d stepped out of the police station? Did she find the envelope and the parting gift he’d left on her desk?

Time is an ever expanding cavern and he has nothing to do but fill it with thoughts.

 

* * *

 

When the day comes he can no longer avoid leaving the house, it makes him angry more than anything.

It’s fucking ridiculous and dramatic but he runs out of coffee. Soon after that, he’s out of tea.

So after nearly a month walled up in his own home, he struggles into his shoes and throws on a coat to go get a decent fucking cup of black coffee. He’d considered going to the store and buying actual groceries but that seemed far too much effort. Instead, he walks the short distance to a shop he used to pop into every so often when an appointment prevented him from going straight to the office and straight to Sam’s excellent brewing skills. Though he hardly lets himself admit it, he misses her gorgeously made cuppas and coffees as much as he misses a great many other things.

What he remembers about the shop is blessedly still true. Fast service, no chatter, decent brew. The first morning he pays and immediately backtracks home, taking off his shoes once in the door and tossing his coat onto the couch. But fucking Christ it tastes so good to have something other than his own piss-poor attempts that he goes back the next day.

And the next.

A week in, he buys a bun and walks slow enough that he eats the entire thing on the way back.

Always a sucker for routine, Malcolm unknowingly establishes a new one. He wakes and makes himself halfway presentable and then walks to the shop. Buys his coffee and sometimes a pastry and goes home slowly, savoring his breakfast. He looks, really looks, at the city and neighborhood around him and finds he’s not completely fucking revolted. It’s actually kind of… nice.

It feels good to stretch his atrophied legs. He lets them carry him home the long way.

It’s odd to have people recognize him again but in an entirely different context. Megan, who pours his coffee most mornings, has no idea he was once the demon of Downing Street. “The same today, Malcolm?” she says, already reaching for the cup.

Jacob, her co-worker who was only there twice a week and tested the “no chatter” policy, didn’t know Malcolm’s sense of humor had rotted away months ago. But they’re pleasant to him and efficient and let him jump the queue on busy mornings, though the latter might have something to do with the tip he leaves every visit.

He finds a market not far from the shop and buys as many groceries as he thinks he can carry home. When supplemented with a steady stream of takeout, it’s enough. He regrets having neglected to renew the Fruit of the Month subscription.

Time begins to calm and the crashing in his head becomes muted.

One day in mid-August, he looks at himself in the mirror and nearly has to stab himself in the fucking face. Even though he’s done a fair job of keeping the beard under control, it looks ridiculous to his eyes. All gray and brown and dark. Like a Scottish, aged Jeremiah Johnson.

 _Might as well hang a sign that says, I am fucking depressed and I hate my life,_ he thinks. In a fit of frustration with himself, he shaves the beard off and feels lighter when he does. He looks more like himself. Still slightly gaunt, hair halfway to Tom Baker level curls, and skin milky and pallid. It was a sorry sight but at least he recognized the bloke in the mirror.

The next morning when he picks up his coffee, Megan comments, “Oh. You’ve shaved.”

“Yeah,” he says, hand automatically stroking his smooth chin.

Megan appears disappointed though Malcolm can’t fathom why. When she hands him his cup she says dejectedly, “It’s nice.”

“I liked the beard, mate,” Jacob says, poking his head out of the back. Already halfway out the door, Malcolm raises his cup in acknowledgment.

 

* * *

 

One Saturday morning he’s walking home when a crowd across the street catches his eye. Curious, he crosses over and finds a farmer’s market has popped up overnight. Flowers, vegetables, fruits, biscuits, and bread were all nestled among handmade hippy shit. Malcolm is ready to dismiss it all but everything smells so fucking _good_. The sweetness of the flowers draws him in until he is looking at a display of seeds with actual fucking interest. The owner of the stall starts towards him and Malcolm panics, grabbing a packet of seeds.

“Ah pansies, good choice,” the man says. Malcolm’s ears burn but the packet is already being rung up. As he’s about to pay, the man pauses. “You know these need a windowbox or coldframe during this time of year, yeah?”

“Sure,” Malcolm says shortly. _Just let me fucking leave already, you mincing fucking-_

Leaning closer, the man whispers, “Pardon me, mate, but you don’t look like you’ve got the faintest clue.” He reaches under the table and pulls out a wooden box. “Here. I’m going to ring you up for this. It’s on discount and the seeds come with it. You’ll need to have them in here during the colder months and-”

“Got it, thanks,” Malcolm says, handing over several notes and grabbing the box. He exits the market and heads directly home.

He is prepared to completely forget his moment of madness (“a farmer’s market for Christ’s sake,” he mutters as he shuffles around his house, directionless) when Kara calls and he makes the mistake of telling her. She jumps on this new project instantly.

“You should make a garden for yourself. You were always helping mum with hers,” she says in her most annoying little sister voice.

“Shut the fuck up sis, I was not. I stood there and was a good son to our mum while you were out shagging every-”

“Don’t be nasty, Malcolm,” Kara interjects, her tone still teasing. “I know you cried when you were a wee little lad and your little patch of flowers died during that bad frost.”

“Fuck this, I’m hanging up now.”

But the next night he takes an evening cup of tea outside and stares at the barren backyard. It would be something to do, he reasons, even if it’d also be a bit of work. He certainly had the time. He also had the money to pay someone to do all this for him. But that would mean inviting extra sets of eyes and ears into his house which was not fucking happening.

On the next sunny day, he sets to task clearing the yard and discovers he’s really quite weak and out of shape for someone so skinny. But he keeps at it, always one to rise to a challenge. Over a week he adds afternoons spent working in the backyard to his routine. When he’s made enough space, he steps into his car for the first time in months and goes to pick up the supplies he needs and a brochure that tells him what to do. And when he can’t avoid it any longer, he goes back to the farmer’s market and forces himself to chat with a few people and buy the right things.

“Oh are you just starting?” they say. “Hang on a tick, lemme give you…” and they hand him cuttings and plants and all manner of contradicting advice.

“He could start with basil now.”

“No, no, it’ll die when the temperature drops and then where will he be?”

“Shut it, Horace, I know perfectly well that basil will do just fine-”

Malcolm doesn’t listen very much and doesn’t like being fussed over. _If only Sam were here to help sort through this all_ , he thinks wistfully. But he takes what they push into his hands and is glad he thought to bring his car this time because it’s all too much to juggle home.

He follows the instructions he remembers and sows types of lettuce, spinach, and onions and later puts down garlic bulbs. Mint is strategically placed to ward off pests and keep it from blanketing the ground. Privately, he’d been hoping more for flowers than vegetables. On a subsequent visit to the farmer’s market, a woman takes pity on him and give him a packet of seeds that will bloom in early summer.

But he also wants something to look _alive_ now. So he transplants poppies even though he was warned by most everyone he’ll only need to replant them next year. He doesn’t care. The pansies he’d grabbed in a panic the first trip turn out to be winter-flowering and he’s gently assured they will also bloom for him.

Everything requires far more work and thinking than he’d originally intended and he finds himself getting wrapped up in it all. He plants and digs and fusses over the seeds too much and is proud when nothing appears to die in the first couple of weeks. You can’t bully flowers into growing even though he still tries occasionally. A little bit of swearing never hurt and he finds it rather cathartic.

He starts journaling outside, often pausing to write ideas and questions in the margins as they come to him. In the evenings he paces the backyard and fingers the petals of the remarkably still living flowers. Encouraged, he transplants forget-me-nots and marigolds with the hope they too will flower in the spring. Color seeps into his world again. It feels good to bring things to life for once.

 

* * *

 

Late one afternoon in early October he is taking a break from the yard and is surrounded by manilla folders when the phone rings, startling him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers. He’d spent over an hour trying to sort out how to lower the screeching ring of the landline before giving up. No matter how low he put the volume, it still felt like a power drill in his ear.

Mum called twice a week in the evenings but Kara liked to ring him at random times. “Just checking in,” she’d say, always a slight undercurrent of suspicion in her voice.

Not in the mood to talk at the moment, he lets the call go to voicemail. His late lunch of Thai food should be en route and he’d rather reassure his sister on a full stomach than one full mostly of weak tea. He really needed to buy groceries again.

Nearly 30 minutes later, the doorbell rings and he springs to his feet. "Fucking delivery guys are pushing it," he grumbles. Had to be at least 15 minutes late, the useless twats. He flings the door open, his bollocking face at the ready, but instead he simply says-

“Sam.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also want to give a HUGE thanks to user pickledfingers on tumblr. I had no idea how to approach the gardening stuff and even though I'm sure I still got some things wrong, their help was invaluable in giving me a direction and answering my many questions. They also inspired that bit of dialogue about the basil. Thank you!!


	13. Sam: A New Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more episodes to recommend at this point because we're in totally original territory now. Eeep. Hope you're all still enjoying the ride!

 

This time she’d waited two months. Or she’d tried to. It was difficult to sit by and do nothing as someone you cared about was torn apart. It was even more difficult to do it on that person’s own request.

She hadn’t even seen Malcolm leave his office that last day. Instead, word had simply come to her. Malcolm had gone to the police station. It was all over the news, reporters nearly pissing themselves with excitement. Sam couldn’t watch. The defeat in Malcolm’s tone as he said, “Doesn’t matter,” had been like a lead stone forced down her throat.  

As much as she’d wanted to run after him, prevent him from trying to shoulder it all on his own, she’d held back. There were threads to tie up at Number 10 but as soon as she could she took a new job. A week after Malcolm left, she handed in her notice. Only the other PAs were sad to see her go.

The accountant who hires her is diligent and kind and incredibly boring. A family man, he leaves promptly at 5:20 pm every day to be home by 6. He never swears except the odd “fuck” and even then he whispers it to himself and Sam only hears it from years of recognition. Stunned but pleased at how quickly she adjusts to the job, he leaves her to her work. His wife, who had been his PA until Sam was hired, sends her homemade muffins as a thank you.

The work is easy, almost mindless, and it left her too much time to dwell on Malcolm. A month in she started going mad with worry.

She called his cell phone but it always went straight to voicemail. Then she called the landline. No one besides herself and family had the number and she’d decided this was the time to exercise that privilege. Though she hadn’t expected him to pick up, and he hadn’t, it made her feel better to hear his voice on the machine. “Leave a fucking message.”

But as another month passed, the silence began to wear at her, like wind beating against a rock. So she exercised yet another privilege and called Kara. Malcolm’s sister was delighted to hear from her, which made Sam feel a little better at what was, at best, overstepping and, at worst, blatant intrusion.

“I was calling because… I haven’t heard anything. From Malcolm, I mean. Not that I’m expecting him to call me. We don’t work togeth- I don’t work for him anymore- but I just thought-”

“Sam,” Kara interrupted kindly. “It’s alright. We’ve been worried too. But I’ve spoken with him several times and he’s doing fine. As good as can be expected given his whole life has gone to shit in a basket of bollocks, you know?” She laughed and Sam chuckled politely, not at all reassured.

They talked for a few more minutes until Kara had to beg off to wrangle the kids. “It was so lovely to speak with you, Sam. We should talk more often.”

“Yeah that’d be-” but Sam had been cut off when one of the kids let out a screech.

“Mark!” Kara hollered in reply. “Little hobgoblins sometimes, I swear. I’ve really got to dash, Sam, but you ought to go visit Malcolm. See how he’s doing for himself. He’d like that.”

Caught entirely off guard, Sam stumbled. “Did he-”

“Of course he fucking didn’t, the clueless wanker,” Kara chuckled. “But when has that ever stopped you?”

Which is how Sam had ended up throwing caution to the wind and landed herself on Malcolm’s doorstep.

“Sam,” he says and it takes her a moment to jump into action. She is nearly overwhelmed with relief at seeing him alive, remarkably well, and right in front of her. With a deep breath for courage, she blusters into his house and straight to the kitchen.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she says. “I called ahead.”

“I let it go to the machine,” Malcolm says as he shuts the door and follows, looking slightly stunned. “I thought it was Kara.”

Sam’s eyebrows jerk up and she glances at him sharply, as if he should’ve known better. “Took me 15 minutes to convince the chav delivering your food to let me take it up. And cost me an extra fiver too.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Malcolm says peering at her as she grabs plates and dishes up the Thai food. “For the meal and the bribe.”

She bites her lip. “Good. I’m still nicking half this.”

They settle uneasily at the table, Malcolm still a little befuddled. They make excruciating small talk as if they have just discovered the other is their flatmate when in actuality they are two people who have worked what could accurately be labeled as “intimately close” for a decade.

In the middle of a pointless conversation about childhood pets, Sam snaps and blurts out, “I don’t want to know if you did it.”

Malcolm stares at her, noodles suspended from his fork, which is midway to his mouth.

“I’ll help you however you need or however you’ll let me, but I don’t want to know,” she says, wincing internally at the forcefulness of her voice.

Malcolm gives her a long stare. “Alright,” he says and takes his bite of food.  

Surprised, Sam checks her tone and adds. “It doesn’t matter is all.”

“Doesn’t it?” he asks softly and she is not entirely sure which one of them he is asking.

“No. Not for me.” She waits for him to press the topic but he only nods. She lets it drop.

After dinner, she discretely tours his house. Kara was right; things did look fairly well in order. Sam raises an eyebrow at the yard maintenance brochure that’s smeared with dirt and lying near the back door. When she finishes, Malcolm is sitting comfortably on the couch. She gets the sense he knows exactly what she has been doing and has let her do it.

“I should be off,” she says quietly.

“Oh,” Malcolm replies, standing quickly. “I thought-” He rubs the back of his head and Sam notes the way his curly hair bounces slightly. He’s finally let it grow a bit.

“Work in the morning and all that,” she adds and gathers her things. He trots after her.

“Right. I suppose you would be… Right.”

He walks her to the front door and she is somewhat relieved to discover they are still incapable of saying goodbye like two normal fucking people. _At least one thing hasn’t changed._

“I’ll be by tomorrow to help you with those files,” she says, peeking over his shoulder at the papers piled into the corner. Malcolm turns to look as well.

“Oh that’s... Fuck, don’t worry about it. Look, Sam,” he says seriously, “I appreciate you coming over here and what you said but-”

“Oh shut up, you stupid man.” As always, Malcolm looks adorably surprised when she interrupts him. _Two things_ , she thinks. “You’ve been a proper idiot and I won’t have it.”

Again, Malcolm nods slowly. His refusal to pry like she wants him to is peculiarly unlike him. She sighs in frustration.

“Malcolm, I told you I didn’t want to know if you did it. That doesn’t mean I think you _did._ It’s not that,” she says stepping closer and letting her voice drop. “I said it doesn’t matter because whether or not you did it, that won’t change anything for me.”

“Sam…” he starts, shaking his head, but doesn’t follow it up.

She moves closer still, hesitant and unsure of herself but unwilling to not at least try. When he doesn’t move away or protest, Sam slips her arms under his and pulls him in. A knot she’s been carrying for much longer than three months releases at last. She can feel Malcolm’s fleeting touch on her back and then the reassuring pressure of his hands.

With her eyes closed, she turns her head and whispers into his neck, “I’m still with you.” Malcolm jerks a little at the statement.

Letting go, Sam steps back. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm says with a sniff. “Okay.”

“See you tomorrow,” she says emphatically and sweeps out the door.

 

* * *

 

She holds to her promise and returns the following day and then again two days after that. By the time a week has passed, she has successfully, if a bit forcefully, re-inserted herself into Malcolm’s life. Soon enough it’s expected she will drop by after work as often as she can manage and come over at least once on the weekend. Malcolm winges half-heartedly that she’s spending too much time helping him but she can see he’s pleased to have company and some help.

Together, they pour over the documents he’s compiled and she deftly sorts them into much neater, better-defined stacks. In one of the folders, she spies a small collection of sticky notes and knows without looking closer that they bear her handwriting. Working hard to keep from blushing, she discreetly puts that folder aside and pretends she’s smiling for another reason as she refocuses on the task at hand. Malcolm helps best by staying out of the way and answering the occasional question.

“Do I want to open the one labeled Minister Twatface?” she says holding up a folder that is clipped shut.

“You really fucking don’t,” Malcolm says and takes it from her hand.

“What about this photo of Fatty where he’s-”

“Christ, darling, a little more warning next time.” Malcolm shields his far from innocent eyes. “Put it in the burn pile.”

“And this one of Dan and Ollie looking like a bit too chummy?” she snickers.

“Might as well keep that just for shits and giggles, you know?”

When it’s clear she really does not need him hovering around, Malcolm busies himself with making the notes his lawyer had asked for months ago. They sit at his table or on the couch and work late into the night.

Early in the afternoon on a Sunday, not long after she’d shown up with his dinner held hostage, she rises from his couch to stretch. It’s been a somewhat tedious morning reading the minutes of old meetings. She takes her tea with her as she strolls lazily to the back door but snaps to attention with one glance outside.

“Malcolm?” she calls over her shoulder. When he doesn’t respond, she turns to see him engrossed in a book and not working at all. Pursing her lips in mild irritation, she sets her cup down and says his name again.

“Yeah?” He looks round for her and is surprised to see her standing at the back door, as if he’d hidden it away and she’s only just discovered it.

“Was this all you?” Sam says padding through the garden. Everything is precise and neat, not at all the way Malcolm’s office used to be. The scattered colors of the flowers are bright in the afternoon sun.

Coming to stand just outside the door as Sam strolls through the garden, Malcolm says offhandedly, “Had the time.” When Sam laughs incredulously, he frowns. “Don’t fucking laugh. This was a fuck-ton of work, love. I had to-”

“Relax, Malcolm,” she says, crouching down to look at a small bundle of blue flowers. “I’m just surprised. This is so…”

Squatting next to her, Malcolm huffs, “I know. It was a wee spur of the moment thing that got a bit out o’ hand.” He grins at her and she mirrors it.

“How did you even know how to do all this?” She sweeps an arm around them.

“Another time,” he sighs, waving his hand lazily as he rises. Sam follows him. “We’ve got too much to do.”

“Pardon?” Sam says, hand on her hip. “Where do you get off, Malcolm F. Tucker? I saw you reading while I did all the work. If anyone deserves to stop and smell the roses it’s me.”

“Well I haven’t got any roses so you’re up shite creek there, darling.”

She glowers at him a full half hour just for the fun of it.

He’s right though, there is a lot of work to do. It reminds Sam of thousands of similar nights in Malcolm’s office except this version is much, much better. For one thing, neither of them are wearing shoes and when he nudges her foot to get her attention, she never quite stifles her giggle.

The scratch of Malcolm’s pen on paper and his even breathing is better background noise than any news broadcast they’d ever had on before. But after a few weeks curiosity wins out and she inquires about the telly.

“D’you want it on?” he says.

“No, no, I was just asking. I’ve never known you to keep things so silent.”

Malcolm stares pensively off to the side then walks over to a bookcase and crouches low. There’s a crackle and Etta James’ bluesy voice filters through the house.

_Summertime_ , she sings, _and the livin’ is easy._

A minute later Louis Armstrong’s distinctive rasp joins in. A smile blossoms on Sam’s face.

Malcolm retakes his seat perpendicular to her on the couch, tucking his legs up to rest a stack of papers on. If he were to stretch his legs out, his feet would likely come to rest right against Sam’s thigh.

“Records?” she says after several minutes, eyes glinting as she turns to him.

“Found them a couple of months ago,” he says casually.  

“I see.” Her eyes are steady on him and she can almost see him shrinking in on himself.

“Oh fuck off,” he finally says, slinking down a little further into the couch, and Sam snickers.

Sometimes they work so late, Sam stays long after when she should’ve already been home. After a month, Malcolm stops trying to make her go home early. It had never worked back at the office so why he thought it would work now is unfathomable to her. She tells him as much and he just shrugs. “Can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

The first night she passes out on his couch, she wakes just barely to the feel of him covering her with a blanket. Blindly reaching out, she manages to catch his hand. But instead of asking if he’s sure she can stay, the question comes out as contented murmuring into the couch cushion. Malcolm gets it anyway.

“I’m sure, love. Go back to sleep.” He gently squeezes her hand and it’s the last thing she remembers before she’s unconscious once again.

 

* * *

 

And so it goes. October ends and a rainy November begins and slowly the list of work to be done for Malcolm’s case begins to dwindle. This doesn’t deter Sam from showing up several times a week anyway and Malcolm doesn’t say a single thing to the contrary. When she is too tired to read or organize or make binders for him, Malcolm clicks on the TV and they pass the evening trading jabs at the nightly news broadcasts.

Other times they sit swapping stories over burgers and fries about the glory days at Number 10 or their day to day lives now. He tells her what he gets up to while she is away at work, though it’s not hard to figure out on her own. When she arrives there will be another patch of the house that looks clean and orderly or several crumbled bits of paper will be on the table and another draft of notes will be halfway finished or Malcolm will have dirt smeared on his hands and neck.

Once, she arrives a tad early. Bowie is on the record player and Malcolm has just come downstairs from a shower. The image of a slightly damp Malcolm, hair dark and wet, is one she’d never thought she’d see and one she doesn’t soon forget.

They trade off making coffee or tea. Though they’d both prefer she do it every time, Malcolm wouldn’t hear of it. “You’re not my fucking assistant and I’ll not have you acting like it, especially not in my own house.”

To that, Sam had pressed her lips together and looked skeptically at the papers strewn in front of her, then back at Malcolm. “That’s on you, darling,” he’d said sarcastically and snagged her coffee cup. She compensates by bringing him the chocolate biscuits he loves so much.

“Where do you find these? I’ve looked in the shop and they don’t fucking exist.”

“Little family owned place a few blocks from my flat,” Sam says fondly, popping a piece into her mouth. “They make everything themselves.”

Malcolm blinks then shakes his head. When he half turns towards her, his eyes are sparkling. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” and Sam smothers her smile in another piece of biscuit.

Somewhere along the way, the work becomes less work and more time they are choosing to spend together. They take extended breaks outside in the garden and Malcolm slowly reveals how he transformed the space. He speaks with obvious pride, peeking at her regularly, like a schoolboy waiting to see if he’ll get a good mark. It makes her swell with something like pride too.

One November morning they walk to the coffee shop Malcolm has told her about. Even though she knows he had been frequenting the place for months, Sam is still surprised when the woman behind the counter greets him by name.

“Malcolm! Been a little while. We thought you’d given us up. The usual…” she trails off finally seeing Sam. “Oh. And something for you as well, ma’am?”

Malcolm looks slightly bewildered but gives their orders as Sam browses the small stand of merchandise on the far side of the shop.

“What?” he asks quietly when he comes to join her, their order in hand. Sam watches Megan glance over at them then pretend to clean the counter.

“Nothing,” she says, lips curling upwards.

“Malc!” a voice calls. A man emerges into the front of the shop. “Good on you showing up again. How’ve you been, mate?”

“Malc?” Sam mouths at him, her back to the other man. Her eyes are alight with amusement.

“Alright, Jacob, thanks. We’re just shoving off,” he says over his shoulder as he ushers Sam out of the shop.

“Not a fucking word,” he says when they’re outside. Sam sips her blueberry black tea deliberately.

When she gets a raise at work, he insists on taking her out to celebrate. The Italian restaurant has changed their marinara sauce to something more robust and packed with garlic but the foot space under the table is the same. Malcolm goes on and on about how happy he is for her until there’s not enough pasta in the entire restaurant for her to awkwardly shovel into her mouth. Landing the position had been easy. She was trustworthy, kind, and, quite simply, phenomenal at her job. Plus-

“I had good recommendations,” she says eventually and her eyes glitter when Malcolm falters slightly.

“You got them then?” he asks, tugging on his ear self-consciously.

“Could hardly miss them sitting on my desk under a very fresh looking apple. Made me feel like I was your favorite teacher or something.” She bumps her knee against his playfully and Malcolm looks suddenly pleased and bashful.

“How’d you get Dan to write one?” she asks

Malcolm only shrugs, a gesture that is becoming frustratingly commonplace for him. A part of her misses the days when he’d speak himself into a corner and reveal far too much in the process.

After dinner, she invites him into her flat for the first time. It’s strangely intimate despite having known one another a decade and even more strange how Malcolm seems to… fit. He doesn’t stay long, just enough for a cuppa, and then he is at her door hugging her goodnight as is their custom now. It’s a tradition she hadn’t meant to start that first night but she isn’t complaining either.

Malcolm smells particularly lovely that night, a blend of soil from his garden, tomato sauce from the restaurant, and his own spicy scent. His arms are stronger than they used to be, probably thanks to the gardening, and he holds her in such a secure way she sometimes doesn’t feel like letting go.  

 

* * *

 

December fades into being without preamble and Malcolm’s lawyer phones to say they are hoping for news very soon. With nothing else to do but wait, Malcolm invites her out to dinner and then again the next week. He wants to keep going to the Italian place but she suggests other restaurants, ones they can discover together. She also manages to drag him to the cinema one night when she is tired of being cooped up inside.

“How is sitting at the cinema any different than flopping onto your own couch?” he says.

“It just is. At least it’ll be different air.”

Malcolm grumbles but agrees with almost too little prodding and when the film is awful, as expected, he complains the entire drive back. She would be more upset about his attitude except that he always looked so invigorated when he really got to complain about something and he’d worn a nice button-up shirt just to go to the cinema with her and that alone was worth the night out even as he tells her for the fourth time, “And Christ alive, why the fuck was James Gandolfini in this? He looked like a whale who’d gotten a good thump on the head.”

He falls asleep on her couch for the first time that night. In the morning, he is stiff and skittish, springing up with a grimace the moment he realizes where he is and is already three long strides out the door before he realizes he hasn’t said goodbye. They both vow to never let him fall asleep there again even if Sam had rather enjoyed sleepy, disheveled Malcolm.

As the holidays draw nearer, Sam urges him to go home, feeling it is the least she could do for Kara.

“What’s the use of staying here?” she says to him one night a week and a half before Christmas. “Kara and your mum and the kids would be so thrilled, Malcolm. And there’s no harm in it.”

“Jiminy Fuckmas, fine, if only to get every woman in my life to shut up about it.” They toast her victory (or Malcolm’s surrender) with warm cider.

She lets him off the hook for New Year’s and goes to her friend Patrice’s party alone. It’s loud and raucous and the opposite of something Sam usually likes but she finds herself having a good time. It’s half past 11 when she sees the missed call from Malcolm and rings him back, concerned. Instead he tells her the case has been dropped.

“They called you tonight?” she yells into the phone.

“This afternoon! I wanted to wait to tell you until later but I…” If he says anything else, Sam can’t hear him. Looking around the room she makes a sudden decision.

“I’m coming over!” she yells and then hangs up without hearing his protestations.

Midnight strikes while she is in the taxi and it’s quarter past by the time she’s running up Malcolm’s walkway. As soon as he opens the door, propelled by champagne, excitement, relief, and more champagne, she flings her arms around him. He hops back a few steps, managing to kick the door closed as he braces her in his arms.

“Steady on, lass,” he teases.

“I’m so happy for you, Malcolm. It’s done. It’s finally over.” Sam’s feet find the floor and she leans back from him.

“Yeah,” he chokes out. His eyes are shiny and wet. “Yeah it is, love.”

They both blink, aware they haven’t quite let go of one another, and then Malcolm steers her towards the couch. He clicks on the telly and they pass two hours there watching a movie she doesn’t remember until the next thing Sam knows she is waking up alone in the dark. She has just enough wherewithal to know her shoes have been removed and there is a heavy blanket lying on her before she’s asleep again.

In the morning, Malcolm is reading the paper and drinking coffee when she wakes. He starts on breakfast, discreetly keeping his back turned while she puts herself to rights and sneaks off to the spare bathroom. When she returns he is plating up bacon and eggs and some of the tattie scones his mother sent back with him. He hasn’t even finished pouring her coffee before he sets in on teasing her for being maybe more tipsy than she remembers. He takes special pleasure in recounting how she’d passed out midway through a slightly slurred retelling of when she and her friends at university went careening down a hill on top of stolen trays from the dining hall.

But Sam doesn’t care, can’t even find it in herself to be that embarrassed. Even though the champagne has long since passed through her system, she feels bubbly. He is finally and completely free. The breakfast he’s made is even better than she remembers. Nina Simone is on the record player. And Malcolm hasn’t stopped smiling all morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to elloette for lending me the story about the college antics.


	14. Malcolm: Ginger Biscuits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so not long after I'd written a portion of chapter 1, I had a very vivid dream that eventually became a portion of this chapter. It was a long road to get here but I'm happy to have had my amazing beta, elloette, along with me for the journey. Thank you <3

 

 

“Stop pouting.”

“I’m fucking not!”

“Then you might want to inform your eyebrows,” Sam says, pointing. “If they scrunch any closer together they’re going to merge.”

Malcolm self-consciously rubs at his eyebrows. For the past ten minutes, he’d been watching Sam gather items from around her flat and neatly put them into her suitcase, which lay on her bed. If he was frowning it was solely because she was so fucking efficient it confused him.

“I just don’t understand why you’re going now.”

“Why not now?” Sam counters as she holds up two jumpers. She stares at one then the other for a few seconds, then packs them both into the suitcase.

“You were just there during Christmas.”

“I know.”

“That was two months ago.”

“I _know_.”

“ _Sam_ ,” he counters, working hard not to frown. He could feel his eyebrows twitching.

“How can _you_ be the one irritated with _me_ right now?” she turns to him, hands on her hips.

“Because you aren’t giving me a real fucking answer!” he says, throwing his hands into the air.

Sam huffs frustratedly. “I had a good time at Christmas, yeah? It’d been awhile since I’d gotten to see my parents and they were after me to come visit for ages. I’d been putting them off because…” She gives him a pointed look but Malcolm only shakes his head in confusion. “I had things to attend to.”

 _Oh_ , he thinks and admonishes himself. _Prat._

“Yes.” She continues laying clothes into her suitcase, maybe a little more haphazardly than a moment ago. Eventually she clears her throat and says, “But now that’s settled. I have a little time off accumulated so I can manage to take Friday and go in a little late on Monday. It’s not a long trip, granted, but it’s something. More than I gave them the last few years.”

Malcolm kicks himself again.

“So I think this is a great time.”

He harrumphs softly as he pushes off the doorframe of her bedroom and heads towards the sofa.

“You’re being childish,” Sam calls from the other room. “It’s a few days. I’m sure you can manage on your own. It’s not like you need me here.”

To that, he clamps his mouth shut. Arms crossed, he sits down heavily onto the sofa, glad she cannot see him. She’s right in some respect. Since the case against him was dropped, Jamie had been in touch. The man was still a deranged bulldog but it was good to see him again. Someone else from the old days that he didn’t fucking despise. They’d had dinner a couple times and kept in semi-regular contact. Malcolm had also gotten a call from Cal asking for a game of tennis or some such but hadn’t replied yet. So, yes, he had other friends, sort of. But none of them were Sam.  

“You should think about some time away too,” she says seamlessly. “I know Kara and your mum have been pestering you since Christmas. You weren’t there very long after all.”

“Ay, they’re fucking relentless,” he says, pressing two fingers and a thumb to his temples. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the lovely London air.” He raises his arms mockingly and Sam either peeks out of her room or knows him that well because she giggles.

“Would it be so awful to visit them? They’re only worried about you.”

“Except there’s nothing to worry about now. It’s fucking finished and I’m perfectly fine,” he says, his exasperated voice reminding her they’ve had this conversation before. “I know they mean well and before you say anything, I know it’s all out of love or whatever you want to call it. Doesn’t make it any less fucking irritating.”

In her room, Sam says something too quiet for him to hear.

“What’s that?” he calls, turning his head to look over the back of the couch. There’s a poignant pause, then Sam appears in her doorway. When she doesn’t say anything, he pulls himself around to face her. “Sam?”

“Come with me then,” she says, meeting his eyes straight on.

Malcolm startles at the casualness of the offer. “Don’t be fucking daft.”

“I’m not having you on, Malcolm. Come with me.” Sam moves towards the couch until she is close enough he could reach out and tuck his fingers in one of her belt loops if he were so inclined. He clears his throat pointedly but Sam doesn’t step back.

“That’s-” he shakes his head, at once convinced the idea is absurd and yet lacking any ready reasons why. “No, love, it’s your family and they don’t want some pasty, sweary Scotsman showing up on their doorstep.”

Sam frowns like you would at a particularly stupid child. He turns away from her and leans into the couch as he says, “It’s very kind of you but you don’t need me there all gray and gloomy.”

“Stop acting so self-pitying,” Sam says. “I know it’s all a load of bollocks so you can drop it right now.”

Malcolm’s face drops into a pout before realizing it would only prove her fucking point. He attempts a scowl instead.

“Come with me, Malcolm. Get out of the city. You’ve hardly left London at all the last few years. My parents live in a quiet patch of the countryside with one telly that they hardly ever turn on. Bring your books and that journal you think I know nothing about-” she smirks as his eyes widen in mild panic- “and leave things behind for a while.”

The more Sam’s comforting, beseeching voice laid it out for him, the more appealing the trip sounded. He wouldn’t mind leaving London behind for a bit. Nothing, in particular, tied him here. He’d gotten an offer from a periodical to write a political commentary article and this might be a good time to fiddle with it a bit, see if something sticks.

Taking his silence for refusal rather than rumination, Sam continues, “My mum will probably make some of those biscuits you’re always nicking from my kitchen.”

“For fuck’s sake woman, is there anything you don’t notice?” he says out of nervousness more than anything. He turns to face her again.

Sam holds his gaze several beats, then smiles as wickedly as she can manage. Which is to say, hardly wicked at all. His barely maintained scowl breaks at the sight.

“You know I’m right,” she says.

“About the biscuits?”

“ _Malcolm.”_ She gives him a cross look.

“I don’t know, darling,” he says, when the truth is, he’s not sure how to keep refusing.

“Well I do,” she says smugly in response, arms crossed. “You’re coming with me if it means I have to pack your suitcase myself. I’ll not let you hole yourself up in your house and then whine to me on the phone that you’re bored. You’re coming, Malcolm Tucker, and it’s not negotiable.”

Surprised but not displeased, he again stares wide-eyed at her. For some reason, his jumper suddenly feels uncomfortably warm. “Fuck it,” he says, “fine. But I’m driving and you’re not allowed to chip in for petrol.”

 

* * *

 

The drive is shorter than he’d imagined. Once they’re clear on directions and winding smoothly along a country road, Sam dozes off in the passenger seat. She’d arrived early at his house as they’d planned though he suspects it was mostly to give herself extra time to drag him out the door if need be. He’d been waiting with coffee and bagels. The look of delighted shock was worth the ungodly early morning walk to the shop.

As they pass the halfway point only a couple of hours in, Malcolm wonders why Sam didn’t come home more often. It would be a difficult to fit into a weekend, perhaps, but not overly taxing. Her car was in fine enough shape and her family certainly seemed eager to see her. The latter he understood all too well. While taking a wide curve, it occurs to him her schedule the past few years was probably the main culprit. Which meant, _he_ was the main culprit. He chokes down another spoonful of guilt.

When they are only half an hour away, she wakes, as if prompted by the siren call of her childhood house. He keeps his eyes pinned straight ahead as Sam stretches sleepily next to him. For the first time, he’s grateful the damp, unfamiliar road requires extra attention.

The Cassidy cottage is what tourists would happily call cozy. What Malcolm notices first is the gray brickwork. He’d always imagined Sam came from somewhere brighter. What he notices second is her parents already standing outside as the car pulls in. Sam politely waits for him and they walk up together. She hugs both her parents in rapid order then introduces him. Her father shakes his hand firmly while Sam’s mother looks as though she’d like to hug him. Instead, she folds her hands together and smiles broadly.

“It’s so good to meet you, Malcolm.”

Her voice had the same soft, welcoming quality as Sam’s. A faint blush rises on his cheeks but he is saved when Sam leads her mother towards the house, already deep in conversation, and her father beckons Malcolm towards the car.

“Best let them have their time together,” the man says, his voice a raspy contrast to his wife’s. “It’s been too long.”

“That’s probably down to me,” Malcolm says as they pull two bags from the boot.

“Don’t bother taking the blame, son. There’s plenty else you’ll get blamed for later on.” The fond way he says it makes Malcolm think this man hasn’t minded enduring any such accusations from his wife over the years. “Besides, Samantha’s a smart girl and she knows herself. She chose what she felt was right and we don’t fault her.”

Malcolm can only nod as they follow Sam and her mother into the cottage.

 

* * *

 

The garden in the back reminds him of home, both his in London and his mother’s in Scotland. She had always wanted a garden like this. It had never quite panned out but she loved the flowers she was able to bring to life there. There’s a bench within earshot of the kitchen window so it’s easy for Sam to call to him when it’s time for luncheon or when she simply wants him to come in. But their time here is brief and, even though she hasn’t said anything, he knows she wants to spend as much of it as possible with her parents.  

Mostly, he lets them alone and they don’t pester him to join in. He’s been installed on the couch and, remarkably, is able to sleep well enough there. In the mornings he wakes to Sam and her mother starting breakfast. In the afternoon, Sam’s father likes to doze in front of the telly, which flickers in and out of life, so Malcolm wanders to a comfortable spot in the garden and settles in. It feels nice to not have to do anything. He’s been on edge for so many years, hardly ever stopping to breathe let alone think. Out here he finds there’s space enough for both. He sits and reads and writes.

Sam and her mom go on walks out beyond where he can even spot them. On Saturday, they drag him and her father along and as much as he would like to grouse, he doesn’t. In fact, he has a hard time finding much of anything to complain about. It’s all so fucking pleasant he has to catch himself from looking for the ploy.

Sunday afternoon, he is reading happily on his garden bench, one ear tuning in and out of the conversation between Sam and her mother in the kitchen. He likes hearing Sam’s voice so close by. It reminds him of late nights, just the two of them in his office. Now they spend that time together without the soul-crushing work beforehand.

“Are you sure you won’t stay another day or two?” Sam’s mother says.

“Work.”

“Mmmmm,” the older woman responds. “You know sometimes I think you had more freedom working for the government.”

“How d’you mean?”

“If you’d asked Malcolm for a few extra days, he’d have given them to you.”

Malcolm swivels his head more towards the window. Instinct tells him Sam was likely blushing.

“You’re probably right,” Sam answers, her tone almost wistful. “But I-”

“I know, dear. You never would’ve asked.”

Sam’s laugh is nervous and breathy. There’s movement in the kitchen and Malcolm realizes they must be preparing supper. Several minutes of conversation go on, all focused on cooking-related topics and he turns back to his book.

“Oh, piss!” Sam’s mother says loudly before catching herself. In a quieter voice she says, “Is that too much sugar? I forgot I already put it in. It’s going to make it very sweet.”

“It’s fine, mum. The sweeter the better. He’s going to eat them all no matter what.”

“It’s good you told me ahead of time about making these biscuits. I didn’t have enough ginger in the garden and had to nip over to the neighbors.”

“I may have used them to bribe him a little,” Sam says sheepishly.

The tips of Malcolm’s ears go hot.

After a minute’s silence, Sam’s mother whispers, “He’s not like what we’d thought he’d be.”

“Oh?” Sam says cagily. “What did you think he’d be?”

“No, no, don’t look like that, sweetheart. Nothing wretched or anything. Only... well the papers and the news made him seem so… different than how he is.”

Malcolm wonders if in the kitchen Sam looks as stricken as he feels. He holds his breath waiting for Sam’s reply but instead, her mother continues.

“He’s more like what you’ve always said. Witty and clever and alright maybe he has a bit of a sweary side, though nothing like how we'd imagined.”

Sam’s laugh sounds nervous. “I think he’s trying to be on his best behavior for you.”

“Whatever for? Is there something-”

“No, mum,” she says tiredly. Malcolm gets the sense they’ve broached some topic mother and daughter have discussed ad nauseum. “He was worried he’d be this big billowing cloud over our little weekend.”

“Hardly,” Sam’s mother exclaims. “He’s been so reserved and so sweet. Did you see the way he helped me over that marshy patch during our walk? Your father was too busy staring at wildflowers, bless him. And he’s asked me all about the garden. How I grew the tomatoes and what kind of flowers he should plant in the coming months.”

Sam laughs again, pleasure more evident in the sound this time. “I think he wants you to like him,” she says.

“Ah. Well then.” There’s the sound of an oven opening and pan scraping into place on a rack. “Do you _want_ us to like him?”

Sam sputters a little. “Do you not?”

“No, we do! We do, dear. He fits in rather nicely here.”

“Oh. Good, that’s-” Malcolm hears the shuffling of feet in the kitchen. “I’m glad,” Sam says, sounding further away.

“Were you worried we wouldn’t?” The older woman’s tone drops in the way mother’s tones always do when preparing to console their child.

“Not exactly. I just...”

Malcolm is stone still on the bench, breath evaporating in his lungs as he listens. There’s more movement in the kitchen and Sam’s next words are muffled, as if she is saying them into a shoulder, and he has to strain to catch them.

“He’s important to me.” One or maybe both of the women sniffle quietly.

“We know he is, love.”

Some autonomic response in Malcolm’s brain fires and he springs up from the bench and is several paces away before he takes a breath. He feels jittery. His legs carry him out of the garden and down the road a bit before he catches himself. Glancing back, he makes himself turn around but not before whispering a very soft and heartfelt, “Fuck.”

That night everyone trickles into the garden after supper. They sip their wine and have entire conversations without ever mentioning politics. He isn’t sure if this is in deference to him or if Sam’s parents simply have better things to talk about. He adopts a quiet manner most people would be surprised to discover comes naturally to him.

Most people except Sam. She sits near him and loops him into the conversation every so often and lets him ease back out without any fuss. She sips on an orange juice even though he knows she likes wine. There’s a conspiratorial gleam in her eye when he catches it after taking a drink from his own glass.

A few of the neighbors show up unannounced but are happily folded into their small party of four. In a way, he is glad to have other people to add to the conversation. He drifts to the edge of the group, orange juice still in hand, and watches Sam. How long must it have been since she’s seen these people? Years at least. But she greets them warmly and smiles and even if he can’t hear her, Malcolm knows she’s asking after their health and family with genuine interest. Her head tilts back as she laughs and he smiles softly. The light from the garden makes her glow.

He deposits his empty glass in the kitchen, slips on his coat, and wanders to the side of the house. His spot in the garden unavailable, he takes up a new place in the dewy grass under the night sky. It’s colder here without the heat lamp and the other people around. The noise of the party is faint but every so often he’s sure he can hear Sam’s laughter.

Tomorrow they will return to the city and the new lives they are each carving out for themselves. And for one another. A part of him can’t wait to be back in their space, their world, going to lunch and spending long nights watching telly or a movie or just working side by side.

But he can’t deny he likes this too. Likes being outside, feeling the cool air on his face. Likes knowing she is laughing and having fun with people she loves. Likes knowing she is nearby all the time. It’s the same way he feels on the nights Sam falls asleep on his couch.

They stayed up so late sometimes that she got too tired to drive home. She never said anything to him and instead, would start listing into the back of the couch. He’d return from the loo or the kitchen to find her curled up, already half asleep. He would cover her with a throw then retire upstairs alone. Every time he would argue with himself about why it would be wrong to stay downstairs with her, why it would be rude and incredibly presumptuous to wake her and give her his bed instead.

 _I could always send her home first and avoid this nonsense altogether_ , he’d think and then shake his head. He liked having her in his space, even asleep, and liked being in hers. Something in his house, in _him_ , came to life when Sam was around. He wouldn’t boot her out if she was willing to stay.

His musings are interrupted by the sound of quiet footsteps approaching. A gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to stay outside, you know?” she says quietly.

“I know. Didn’t want to seem like some fucking loser pouting indoors while the cool kids were at the party.” He looks up at her. Moonlight in her hair, fairy lights twinkling in the distance, and a smile that he felt reach all the way to the bottom of his heart. A tiny voice in his head said that smile was just for him and he couldn’t find the strength to argue.

“And…” he looks down at where his elbows rest on his bony knees, “I like being out here. It feels different than being in the city. It’s nice.”

“Me too.” She squeezes his shoulder once and he just catches her eye before she moves. Something there makes him think she isn’t just talking about the country air. Sam lays out a blanket next to him and lowers herself to one side, sitting for hardly an instant before lying back, stretched out beneath the starry sky.

He frowns a little at her, unsure exactly what is going on.

“Well come on, you daft man, before your arse is frozen from sitting on the wet ground.” She grins at him and he can’t help but comply.

Once he’s resettled himself, Sam points at the sky and says, “You see that blinking star there?” He cranes his neck to look. “That’s Canopus. It’s a supergiant, one of the brightest stars in the night sky. The name comes from the navigator for the king of Sparta. It’s part of the constellation Carina.”

He looks down at her, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“What?” she says, giggling. He shakes his head, never not amazed by the depths there were to discover about Sam Cassidy. He adds, “space nerd,” to the list in his head.

She tugs on his sleeve. “Lie back. You’re missing it.”

“Missing what?”

She motions for him to lie down and with an exaggerated sigh he complies with that too. Malcolm Fucking Tucker indeed.

“Missing what?” he asks again, turning his head towards her.

“Everything,” she says dramatically, sweeping an arm across the sky. He shakes his head but looks up all the same.

“So what about this Carina, then?” he says after a minute.

“Carina is the keel. It’s part of what was once labeled a larger constellation, the Argo Navis, named for the ship Jason and his Argonauts used when searching for the Golden Fleece.”

“Why’d they break it up?”

Sam shrugs. “Because scientists like to break things down and label them?”

Malcolm chuckles. “What are the other two parts?”

“Vela.”  She traces a shape in the sky. “The sails. And the other is Puppis, the stern.”

He snickers despite himself and Sam glances at him. “I think that’s what we call the shite deck, darling.”

That earns him a soft jab in the arm. Rubbing it in mock pain he rolls on his side to face her. After a moment’s hesitation, Sam does the same. Hardly a foot separates them. He can smell her perfume. It was citrusy, like her breath.

“Why do you like stars, Sam?”

“They’re beautiful,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes tracing her heart-shaped face. It’s cold and getting colder and they’re lying on the dewy grass with only a blanket for protection so the pink in her cheeks might’ve been there all this time. But he doesn’t think so.

“And they remind me there’s more than just me in this universe. So much more,” she says, her voice infused with wonder and eyes glazing over.

“Yeah,” he says again, wincing internally at how moronic he sounds. Sam chuckles softly.

“I like Libra too,” she says as if telling him a long-held secret.

“Why?” The question springs from his mouth.

“It’s very faint, hard to see. Most people can’t find it unless they know precisely what to look for and when. So it’s sort of like finding a treasure.” Her eyes glitter in the starlight.

He couldn’t say when but a feeling had begun to build in his chest, like a bird fluttering its wings in anticipation of taking flight. As Sam turns onto her back and once again contemplates the night sky, Malcolm keeps contemplating _her_. Sometimes he was convinced Sam was otherworldly. Nothing, no one, so good, so accepting, so lovely in every respect could have sprung from this planet. Having met her family he understands now where she got it and yet still, it baffles him.

His mind flashes back to a week ago and the sight of her asleep on his couch. Like every other night, he’d covered her with a throw. But then he’d allowed himself a minute of self-indulgence to look at her without fear of reproach. Sam was a beautiful mess when she slept. Hair strewn about, mouth hanging open, and her face smushed uncomfortably into the cushions. The sight always made him smile. It also made him wish for more.

Would she ever consider lying in his bed next to him? Not spent and sweaty and panting. _Although…_ he’d thought, then caught himself. No. He’d never take advantage, ever. But would Sam let him trace the tips of his fingers along her brow? Or the curve of her ear?

When his minute was up and he’d padded upstairs, the image of her stayed with him. As he slid into bed, the questions hummed in his mind. Maybe one day he’d ask, he told himself. There were a lot of questions still to ask her.

One he would like to ask right now lying next to her under the stars.

A lightness spreads through his chest. He wishes suddenly that he were closer to her. Can’t understand why there was ever any space at all between them. Whose fucking idea was that? But he can’t bring himself to close the distance. He lays there, taking her in, as a pleasant kind of buzzing moves through him.

But Sam. Sam always knows.

One hand drifts from where they’ve been clasped on her stomach down to the blanket between them. He looks at it a bit disbelieving for an instant then smiles. He glances back at her but her eyes are still on the stars. There’s no hint on her face that she’s done anything unusual.

His hand slides along the blanket and slips under hers. A jolt races up his arm and settles in his heart. Something like a sob or a sigh escapes her. He starts to ask what’s wrong but she squeezes his hand once in reassurance and he closes his mouth.

Now he finds it in himself to shift a tad closer. He lets their hands rest lightly against his leg. Sam still hasn’t taken her eyes from the stars but Malcolm doesn’t mind. She adjusts her grip on his hand, keeping it light but intentional, not unlike how she’d squeezed his shoulder earlier. His heart thuds harder in his chest. He brushes his thumb over her fingers, his own long fingers more than equal to the task, and lets the warmth in his heart pulse through him.

He knows he’s fucked. He can’t stop smiling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too many chapters left for this story that's taken a year of my life. I can't believe it's going so fast.


	15. Sam: Clued Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Thank you to everyone who is reading this fic, thank you to everyone commenting, and thank you most of all to my beta, elloette, who goes above and beyond on every chapter.

 

If she’s honest, she has no fucking idea what they’re doing.

Right now she is watching him make dinner. Despite his propensity to multitask while multitasking, Malcolm is giving their dinner his full attention. Sam has learned these past months that Malcolm does know how to cook but has had little reason or opportunity to do so in recent years. Although she’d been concerned at first what he might try to make for them, based on the smells coming from the kitchen she needn’t worry.

“Stop fucking staring!”

Sam chuckles. He hasn’t even turned around. “Just making sure you aren’t burning anything down in there!”

Malcolm clicks a pair of tongs at her over his shoulder. She doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s grinning like a clever cat. Creeping into the kitchen she peers around him to see he’s cutting steaks. Potatoes are already in the oven by the smell of things. She casts him a sideways look that he just catches.

“I don’t need any help, if you were thinking of asking.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she says, shaking her head innocently, as she slips back into her living room.

Perched on the couch, she can just see him as he bustles about her kitchen. He seemed to be enjoying himself and if the meal came out as well as it smelled, maybe she’d ask him to cook more often. The thought makes her lips tug upwards and her eyes crinkle. She makes a mental note to get him an apron for Christmas.

There was something decidedly attractive about a man cooking for you, especially when that man was in just socks, trousers, and shirtsleeves. As Malcolm settles into a spot at the counter, his back to her, she sees the outline of a shoulder blade through the white shirt. Sam fights off an impulse to return to the kitchen and rest her cheek against the curve of bone and skin and cotton. It was unlike Malcolm to wear so few layers and the sight was...

Sam blinks quickly, having flustered herself. Taking a deep breath, she grabs her cup from earlier and takes a good sip of tea.  

In the weeks since their visit to her parents’, a part of her couldn’t help wondering if their indulgence would go unmentioned. She’d steeled herself for this reality, negotiating with her heart that the stars and the atmosphere had been extenuating factors.

For several days she seemed to be right. They settled back into their new normal. Dinners and nights out and long conversations over late night tea. She tried very hard to brush aside any disappointment.

But not even a week after they’d returned, Malcolm asked her over for take-out and a movie and as they’d sat side by side on the couch, closer than they used to, her hand had fallen between them. Even now, with weeks to examine the action, she’d swear it was not consciously done. And yet, she would also swear Malcolm had smiled a little knowingly before his fingers curled around hers.

An unspoken shift had happened after that. In addition the hugs goodbye they’d been enjoying for some time, they added hand holding. So innocuous, so simple, and yet also the exact opposite.

It rained most of March so they were compelled to stay in more often than not. Sam fell asleep on his couch weekly, lulled into pleasant dreams by the food in her stomach, the warmth of Malcolm’s home, and the comfort of his presence. She knew he stayed next to her for at least a little while after she nodded off because she’d sometimes wake to him lifting her feet onto his lap or his thumb brushing her knee.

They don’t talk about it. Not about her spending the night on his couch or the hand holding or how they now spent more nights together than not. Because what kind of former Director of Communications would he be if he actually communicated?

A piece of her had been expecting whatever she and Malcolm were building would crumble. Expecting for him pull away or for herself to become impatient. For something to interfere. For one of them to change their mind. She’d kept it to herself because speaking the fear aloud felt terrifyingly like giving it weight and it was so much easier to bear as a formless gray cloud tucked into the corner of her mind.

And Malcolm… just kept showing up. They shared meals, walked the city at night and during the day on the weekends, and never ran out of words to say. Or when they did or when they didn’t feel like watching something or going anywhere, they’d each pick up their books and read until one of them got restless and drew the other into conversation. When they said good night, he hugged her with equal enthusiasm and every time the goodbye felt wonderfully temporary.

At the end of March, when the weather finally began to cooperate, they went out to a local theater. Nothing fancy but a client had given her boss a set of tickets and he’d gifted them to Sam instead so they went. She wore a dress and Malcolm wore a new navy jacket and dress shirt with no tie and when he picked her up they’d each given the other a long second look. They’d hardly said anything at all by the time they’d sat down to the show and Sam had felt a peculiar anxiety simmering in her gut. And then...

Right before intermission, Malcolm reached over and delicately laced their fingers together. She couldn’t help glancing at him in surprise. This was something they’d only ever done in private, as absurd as that was. As though hand holding were scandalous and must be kept secret. Malcolm had stared resolutely at the stage as their entwined hands lay in her lap.

He hadn’t let go all evening. Not during intermission when they’d walked around the lobby or when letting her lead him up the stairs to her flat for some biscuits before bed (separately, thank you very much). The way his thumb had again and again circled the skin just above her wrist told her everything she needed to know for now.

A few nights ago Malcolm had changed things again when he called to ask if, instead of going out, could they eat in?

“Only if we have something other than Thai food. We’re going to turn into pad thai at this rate.”

Sam had laughed but Malcolm was silent, which always worried her, especially when she couldn’t see his face. He’d stammered out a clarification. Could _he_ cook for them? She was startled. But conscious of his obvious anxiety, even through the phone, she’d quickly told him yes, privately vowing that whatever he made she would proclaim to like.

“What d’you want me to bring?” she’d asked.

A long exhale sounded on his end. “Nothing. Just… you.”

She nodded, before remembering he couldn’t see her. “Alright.”

“Great,” he’d said, relief evident in his tone. “That’s… thank you.”

She didn’t know she could smile so wide.

Although lately, she confesses to herself as she watches Malcolm pulling a pan from the oven, she’s been thinking that a lot.

The steak is just past rare, nicely seasoned, and very good. The potatoes are excellent as are the fresh vegetables Malcolm has prepared from his own garden. During dinner, they are quiet, both tired from their day of working (her) and preparing (him). When his toes nudge hers, she looks up and they smile in unison and Sam feels full to bursting with something she is afraid to name. As Malcolm fits his foot snugly against hers, she sees the tips of his ears are pink and wonders if he feels it too.

They pass the rest of the night in front of the telly, contentedly squashed onto her couch with him on the edge of dozing and her on the edge of something else. Stretched out next to her, long and lean with his socked feet on her table, Malcolm is handsome in repose. Taking advantage of his drowsiness, Sam studies him in surreptitious glances.

He no longer looked drawn, like something was leeching life from him. His profile was still carved and angular but less harsh. The permanent scowl had been absent for months. There was a fullness to his face, his chest, his eyes, even his hair. She’d watched it go from brown to gray and now she’d watched it come back. Curls and waves and dark brown spilling into darker and then lighter gray. He’s kept it a little long and it suits him, softening what was a naturally grumpy face.

His hands were much the same as they had been, still large and expressive with those long fingers and alluringly pale skin. Sam knew they were strong and yet, for a man that has been angry most of his life, they were also surprisingly soft and gentle. _An artist’s hands,_ she thinks. In some other life, Malcolm would have been a painter or sketched landscapes and portraits and flowers.

Next to her thigh, Malcolm’s hand twitches unconsciously. Reaching down, she holds it there, unfurling his fingers until the backs of them are flat against her leg. The feeling she’d had during dinner spreads through her again like hot tea warming her from the inside.

When it is time to say goodnight, she tugs him up from the couch and they shuffle to the front door. “Dinner was lovely, Malcolm, thank you again,” she says as he slips into his shoes and reaches for his coat. “Might need to hire you to make dinner every night.”

Malcolm shakes his head but she can see he’s pleased with the compliment. Coat on, he reaches out to her. Her hands caress his shoulder blades, a favorite spot for her. Always in search of the wings he keeps hidden there, even from himself.

When they pull back from the hug, she opens the door and leans on it as he walks past. “Lunch on Thursday, right?” she asks.

Again, Malcolm nods but his mind is clearly elsewhere as he stares at the ground. She tilts her head at him curiously. “Malcolm, what-”

Without warning he darts forward and kisses her cheek. It’s quick and hardly even a peck and Sam barely has time to straighten in surprise before he has jumped away and is racing down the steps.

“Good night,” he calls behind him, voice hoarse.

Closing the door, she stands with her hand on the knob a few moments, her brow furrowed and mouth trying to work itself into words. Then she laughs, a stilted noise that filters through the flat. _What are we doing?_ , she thinks as she moves away to get ready for bed. By the time she climbs under the covers, cheek still tingling and insides still pleasantly warm, she doesn’t have an answer and also doesn’t seem to mind.

 

* * *

 

“Man’s in love with you. I’ve always said it.”

“Which is probably why I’ve never listened to you,” Sam says with a sigh.

Patrice shrugs and takes a bite of salad. They’d met for lunch in part because Sam always felt awful for never making enough time for her friends these past several years and in part, because she needed advice. Though now that she was getting it, a part of her wishes she hadn’t bothered.

She and Patrice had been friends since university. Somehow, they’d managed to maintain that relationship even as Sam fell off the radar with most everyone else the moment she stepped into Malcolm’s office. That was probably down to Patrice’s inability to harbor resentment and generally affable nature. It was that love for people that had kept Patrice calling her and letting her dodge and cancel plans again and again until Sam could finally squeeze something in. Only in the past few months had they had the opportunity to enjoy something akin to leisurely outings.

They both pick at their salads then give up on them and nibble bread while they await their soup. Patrice sighs.

“Start from the beginning again,” she says.

Speaking more to her salad than her friend, Sam says, “I think I might be dating Malcolm.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Clearly not,” she says haughtily, spreading her hands as though the very fact she and Patrice we’re having lunch was answer enough.

“Do you _want_ to be dating Malcolm?” Patrice asks with the tone of someone who already knows the answer.

Sam starts to respond then stops herself. “I… I’m not sure if _he_ wants to be dating _me_. Or if he is. If _we_ are.”

Patrice rolls her eyes. “Sam…” she says reproachfully.

“It’s all very friendly and platonic, Patrice, and he’s been lonely for most of his adult life and I’m around and available and I’ve always-” she searches for the right word, clearing her throat before continuing, as if also clearing away any descriptions that were too revealing- “I’ve always cared about him. So maybe he’s just…”

Sam waves her hands in an implication that Patrice must be familiar with because she nods.

“Fine, fine, let’s go through it then.” Patrice straightens up and takes a mock detective posture. “You’ve been seeing each other what, four months? Six? It’s April now so...”

“We’re not-”

“Or more like ten years…”

“You’re not helping, you minger.” Sam crosses her arms more tightly and puts on her best bollocking face.

Patrice barks with laughter. “Oh I do like the effect he’s had on you. The Sam Cassidy I knew at university _never_ would’ve used such language! ”

Sam huffs in frustration and looks away. “We’re not seeing each other.”

“Well what do you call it then?” Patrice snarks, grinning and already having abandoned any pretense of seriousness. She waves a piece of bread in the air like a conductor’s wand commanding a particular reply.

But Sam doesn’t really know how to answer except to say, “Friends. We’re friends.”

“Clearly not. Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me if I thought you were accidentally dating Malcolm Tucker.”

“Yes, I can see that was a mistake now,” she replies as the waiter sets their soups in front of them. Sam repositions her napkin to give her hands a task.

Her face must be more cross than she realizes because when Patrice speaks next, she’s conciliatory. “Sammy, I’m sorry, yeah? I don’t mean to needle you about it but you must admit, it’s a bit ridiculous.”

Instead of answering, Sam takes a spoonful of soup. “You’re blushing right now just thinking about it!” Patrice says. “And don’t you dare tell me it’s the hot soup either.”

Sam clears her throat and tries to force her face to cool. “I don’t know what’s going on, alright? That’s why I asked you what you thought.”

“But you don’t like my answer.” Patrice says the words almost regretfully. “It’s not what you want?”

“No! I mean, I…” She swirls her spoon through her soup a moment but no comfortable reply comes to her.

“Alright. Why don’t you tell me what’s been happening? Honest, this time. Give me some details.”

“Like what?” Sam says, eyes narrowing.

Patrice slurps from her spoon. “Whatever you want to tell me. What do you do when you’re together?”

Sam considers this question. Mostly she and Malcolm just... spent time together. They didn’t always do much, or nothing of note. They went to the cinema and occasionally a show. They read or worked or watched telly at his or hers. A few times Malcolm had met her on her lunch break, even coming up to the office to fetch her, as if they were any other people. Once or twice on the weekend, they’d met for brunch and they had dinner together at least once a week. In fact, a lot of their activities involved food, now she thought of it. She tells Patrice all this.

“On what _planet_ are those things ‘not of note?'” She stares incredulously at Sam.

“But these are all things you and I would do too!” Sam protests. “These are all things I do with my _parents_!”

“Yes, and they’re things you do with the person you’re madly in love with as well!” Shaking her head, Patrice dips a bit of bread into her bowl. “That’s not me professing my undying love for you, by the way.”

They both pause a moment then chuckle softly to themselves. After a few minutes of each enjoying their soup, Patrice pipes up.

“If everything is as uncomplicated as you make it seem, then why are you asking me for advice?” she says casually. Without warning, Sam blushes again. “You skiver! Something happened, didn’t it? You have been sitting here all this time holding out on me! Out with it, right now,” Patrice says, hands motioning impatiently.

“It’s not like that,” Sam says slowly. “Not what you’re thinking probably. A week ago-”

“A week?! You cheeky berk! You’ve been holding onto this for a _week_ without telling me?”

“ _Patrice_ ,” she says, irritated. Her friend holds up her hands semi-apologetically and motions for Sam to continue.

“A week ago we had dinner at my house. He cooked actually.” Patrice makes a pained, whimpering sound and her entire body seems to melt a little. Sam continues, briefly explaining the relaxing night and then skipping to the end. As she recounts the peck on the cheek and Malcolm’s, admittedly adorable, running away, she can’t help touching her cheek lightly.

Patrice stares pensively at her empty soup bowl. The silence lingers so long, Sam wonders if her friend was even listening. Then Patrice says in a measured tone, “Is that the first time he’s done it?”

“More or less. The first time it felt really intentional, you know? And he hasn’t done it since,” she adds. “We’ve seen each other three times, twice in the evening, and he hasn’t even made an attempt.”

Patrice nods sagely. “Anything else? Does he find reasons to touch you or flirt or buy you expensive things? I don’t know!” The last part is accompanied by flailing hands as Sam begins to giggle. Patrice’s composure breaks and she laughs too.

“It’s not like that. I can’t- I can’t explain. Malcolm isn’t handsy and the most expensive thing he’s ever bought me was probably flowers for my birthday.” She thinks a moment before giggling again. “And I don’t think he even knows how to intentionally flirt with someone, much less me, who he’s known for a decade.”

Leaning forward on her elbows, Patrice says, ticking each item off on her fingers,  “He cooks you dinner and goes to the cinema with you and he holds your hand at every available opportunity. He takes you out- oh fine, spends time with you-” she concedes when Sam protests- “ and now he’s kissed your cheek?”

After a moment’s consideration, Sam replies, “Yes.”

Patrice’s thumps back into her chair, shaking her head ruefully. “Oh, Sammy, who are you fucking kidding?”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Sam and Malcolm sprawl onto his couch after an easy dinner of sandwiches. Tired from working in his garden most of the day, Malcolm’s posture slackens almost immediately and his head tips back.

Mind still full of her conversation with Patrice, Sam hesitates then decides to be bold. She scoots closer to him and slowly rests her cheek on his shoulder. When Malcolm doesn’t jerk upright, she tucks her lips to his collarbone. She smiles at the feel of his dress shirt and the skin beneath. Cool and heat perfectly mingled together. Like finding a cold patch of sheets on a sunny morning

As she is about to close her eyes Malcolm hums quietly. Her lips are close enough to his chest, she feels the noise as much as hears it. Holding her breath, she watches as he swallows and his throat bobs. Then he angles his head to peer down at her. Sam is caught in his stare and in pushing his difficult to discern boundaries.

From the day she’d starting working for him, risk had been part of the equation with Malcolm. She’d had no notion then what she was stepping into or committing herself to, no way of knowing how she would come to care for this man as more than just her employer.

But these last few months, it’s felt like she is taking risks with him constantly. She lets go of his hand when he lets go of hers. Sits close to him. Doesn’t discuss anything. Lets him see the affection in her eyes. Lets him hug her goodbye and does not ask for more. Waits for him.

And in this moment, she doesn’t move except to turn her hand palm up. A question.

Malcolm’s eyes sparkle a little before answering, his hand slipping over hers, slotting their fingers together. At some point, she expects to stop smiling so widely every time. But it isn’t now.

Emboldened, at the end of the night as they pull back from their hug, she leaves her hands on his shoulders and pauses. Then she perches up on her tiptoes to peck his cheek.

“Okay?” she says shakily, all her brash confidence gone the instant her lips had connected with his skin. She is more than a little afraid of his answer.

Malcolm is frozen in a half-lean so she slips her hands down his shoulders and under the edge of his coat. Gripping firmly, but being sure not to pull him forward, she turns her cheek to him, her intention clear.

Agonizingly slow, Malcolm bends the rest of the way in again. Eyelashes brush her temple as his lips brush her skin. She closes her eyes.

“Okay,” he breathes.

  
  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I loved weaving things into the plot established on the show, it was really fun to get to create whole chapters without the show to factor in. Plus these most recent chapters have also just been more fun, period. Anyway, chapter 16 coming soon. Thanks again!
> 
> P.S. I really don't know how the British swear teasingly at their friends. So I apologize for any misused words but I did my best lol!


	16. Malcolm: Night Blooming Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For elloette, who waited the longest.

 

 

There is something strange about the air tonight. Standing on a corner near his house, Malcolm takes a deep lungful. It was crisp and biting, not at all unpleasant. Yet he can’t shake the feeling there is something unusual about it. Or something unusual about himself.

Next to him, Sam is rooting one hand around in her boot trying to fix her sock while Malcolm acts as her stabilizer. Tongue poking out between her lips, she says quietly, “Sodding, little bugger,” and he chuckles. Sam tightens her grip on his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He laughs to himself again and inhales deeply once more. He detects traces of Sam’s perfume but nothing odd. Earlier in the evening, while pacing in his garden, he’d thought it was the garden itself affecting the air. There was so much color and life it was almost a little overwhelming to look at. The flowers have come through as he was promised and he’d even planted some night blooming ones. Their scent was distinctive in the yard every day at nightfall but that wasn’t what put him on edge. He couldn’t shake a sense of being pulled, as though a string was knotted to his ribcage but he didn’t know where it led.

“Ah! Yes!” Sam cries triumphantly and resettles onto two feet. “Whew! Ok, sorted.”

“Well thank fucking God,” he says drolly. “If we’re late getting our seats at least we’ll have a good reason.” Sam rolls her eyes and takes hold of his arm again as they quicken their pace down the street.

They head the direction of the old throwback cinema Sam had discovered a few months ago. Its velvet seats are worn and each room seats only 20, not that there’s ever a large crowd clamoring to get in anyway. One of its charms, in Malcolm’s mind, was how few people seemed to care or even notice it existed.

Walking there was a bit of a hike but as long as the weather was alright, they didn’t mind. They’d only been caught in the rain once and had to quickly smash together under Sam’s umbrella so it wasn’t all bad in the end.

Despite his snark, they arrive in plenty of time and stop, as always, at the snack stand first. Sam peers carefully at the board and when she finally gives her order, he lets out a singular laugh.

“What?” she asks, affronted. When he only stares at her with a _you fucking know what_ look, she glares at him. Turning to repeat the order to the cashier, she unnecessarily adds, “Make it a large. He’s buying,” before walking away in an impressively haughty manner.

He finds her admiring a row of classic movie posters in the hallway and hands her the vanilla and chocolate cone. “Only woman I know that’d get fucking ice cream at a movie theater,” he mutters.

Sam shrugs off his comment and takes a lick of her ice cream. “Don’t complain to me later when you want some,” she says, smacking her lips happily. He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back for dramatic effect.

Once they are settled in their seats though, he stares at her imploringly. She deftly ignores him until he’s turned away to pout, then taps him on the shoulder.

“You are such child sometimes,” she says as he takes a fair bit of her ice cream. He shoots her a Cheshire grin. Despite herself, Sam smiles too.

Soon enough the lights are down and the film flickers into life. Frank Sinatra swaggers onto the screen and is joined by his original Rat Pack. Even though he liked _Ocean’s Eleven_ well enough, Malcolm finds his mind straying further and further from the plot. There is a restlessness in him that he cannot pin down.

In the past whenever he felt this way work was always the culprit. He considers how this could possibly be true now that he hardly works anymore. He’d done a few OpEd pieces for some political periodicals but he almost doesn’t consider that work. It was liberating to give his opinions, to clue the public in on how government actually functioned, and to never have to worry about being shafted.

Work wasn’t at the root of this… disquiet. His chest felt full and heavy and all day he’d found himself staring off, distracted by nothing and yet thinking of nothing too. It felt as though there was something he was supposed to do, a puzzle piece yet to put in its proper place, but he didn’t know what or where it was or how to fit it in.

It’s not until Sam politely squeezes his knee that he realizes how loud his thoughts have been. She raises her eyebrows questioningly at him. He smiles tightly, shaking his head, and gathers her hand between both of his. Placated, if not satisfied, she leans her head against his shoulder and returns her attention to the screen. Not for the first time Malcolm wishes the armrests in this theater weren’t stationary.

When the film ends, Sam threads her arm through his and they walk back to his at a languid pace. Along the way, she chatters excitedly about the film. The odd feeling in Malcolm’s chest clings on but in the face of Sam’s vibrancy, it takes a back seat. Bringing light to any situation was one of Sam’s special talents. A few weeks ago Malcolm had finally caved and taken her to the farmer’s market, which had re-emerged with the warmer weather. Not that, in Malcolm’s experience, anyone there was ever particularly gloomy but they all seemed to brighten in proximity to Sam’s effervescence.

She’d toured every booth, chatting amiably with the vendors and gardeners, picking up tips for him and carting away her own fair share of donated cuttings. One of the vendors had strolled over to Malcolm smirking.

“Alright, Horace?” he’d said.

“Just fine, thank you.” They’d both stared at Sam, who chose that moment to glance over her shoulder and beam at Malcolm.

“Lovely lass you’ve got there,” Horace had said. “Don’t know what she’s doing with you.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Malcolm muttered.

“Malcolm?”

“Hmm?” He is jerked from the memory by Sam pulling them to a stop.

She tilts her head. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he says, eyes refocusing to the present. “Why’d you ask?”

“Because I just said ‘Of the original Rat Pack, Peter Lawford really is the best looking,’ and you said ‘fuckin’ right.’” Her voice goes Scottish, or as close as she can manage, and his heart does a kind of somersault. “And not that I don’t appreciate your agreement but I-”

He leans forward and kisses her cheek before he even realizes he wants to. Frozen there a moment, his own cheeks begin to flame from either embarrassment or from proximity to her already warm skin. When he pulls back, there’s a distinctly rosy hue to Sam’s face. She stares at him, not displeased, just surprised.

“Everything’s fine, darling,” he says. His hand massages hers briefly in reassurance. Sam raises her eyebrows, not entirely convinced, and squints at him.

“Hmmmmmm,” she says, trying to remain serious as a rueful smile begins to spread. “Alright then. Come on before you turn into an ice lolly.” She tugs him forward with her as they continue back to his house. It takes him a minute to realize she’s closer than before. The back of her hand bumps his thigh.

After a block or so he says, “Fucking awful accent, by the way.”

Sam’s laugh spills out in clouds between them.

 

* * *

 

Inside his house, they discard coats and shoes by the door. He immediately puts the kettle on and Sam clicks on the telly. While he waits in the kitchen, a wave of tiredness washes over him. He feels sleepy. The kind where you’ve spent the day exactly how you wanted and you’re so content you want to go to bed before anything could possibly ruin your mood. Standing with his hands on the kitchen counter, he dips his head and shuts his eyes a moment.

Next he knows, the kettle is whistling and Sam is calling his name.

“Fuck. Sorry, I’ve got it!” he calls back, grabbing the kettle and fixing their tea.

“Maybe we ought to call it a night,” Sam teases.

“I told you, love, I’m fine,” he says, handing her a cup as he settles onto the couch.

“No shame in having an early night,” Sam says before taking a sip of tea. Her face twists. “This one’s yours. Far too sweet.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, as she switches their cups. Where the fuck was his head tonight? Sam pats his leg.

“S’alright. Come on,” she says. “Help me find something to put on the telly. I don’t feel like watching the news tonight.”

“Too right,” he says taking a long drink of tea.

He doesn’t mean to and isn’t even that tired, honestly, but he falls asleep. His dreams are fragmented, blending past and present into something blurry until the first clear vision he has is of himself in the kitchen again, hands on the counter and eyes closed. The kettle is boiling and he knows he needs to get it but there’s a compelling reason to not move just yet. A pair of arms wrap around him from behind and a familiar body leans into him. A hand gently strokes his chest.

“Malcolm,” Sam says in a low tone. “Malcolm.”

He blinks slowly awake. Sam is stroking his cheek, her fingers soft as they glide smoothly from cheekbone to jawline. The way she’s looking at him makes him wonder if she knows what he was dreaming. He tamps down the heat beginning to rise up his neck.

One corner of Sam’s lips lifts a little. Her palm warms itself on his cheek a moment then she leans back.

“It’s late,” she says. “I should go.” Afforded a better view, he sees she’s already put her shoes and coat on.

“Fuck, alright.” He stretches and moves to rise but she presses a hand to his shoulder.

“I can make it to the car on my own,” she giggles. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you-”

But he’s already taking her hand and getting up. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to protest. She laughs quietly at him instead

“Alright,” she says, resigned. They walk the dozen or so steps to his front door and he shrugs into his coat before leaning down to shove his feet into his shoes. When he nearly topples over, Sam instinctively steadies him, one hand on his side and the other on his neck.  

“Malcolm, it’s really fine,” she laughs quietly in the comforting darkness of his house. “I’ll make it to my car in one piece.”

He nods and rights himself as Sam gathers him into a tight hug. As they separate, one of her hands slides down his neck and just catches the base of his throat before holding onto his lapels.

“Good night.” She offers him her cheek as is their tradition. He leans in as he’s done dozens of times now, and his heart beats _thump-thump, thump-thump._ The material of her coat is rough where his hands are resting at her sides.

Moonlight streams in through the front door window. It glances off Sam’s cheek, highlights the arch of her eyebrow, and hugs the curve of her figure. She looks like a painting. Ethereal and sensuous and entrancing.  

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Something clicks into place in him.

He freezes.

The moment pulls and spreads before him until Sam finally swivels back to meet his gaze, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Malcolm?”

He doesn’t know how to explain. In the span of a single second, his breath is already short. Sam’s posture stiffens and relaxes at the same time. The brown of her eyes has never looked more inviting. That sweet citrus scent rises up to tickle his nose. She swallows reflexively and he tracks the movement.

Sam takes a small step away and the hands on his coat fall as if she’s lost the ability to control them. He catches them both, eyes still locked with hers, breath burningly short in his lungs. The fingers of his right-hand dip beneath the cuff of her jumper, seeking more smooth skin. He traces along the veins and arteries at her wrist and feels her pulse leap. Electricity crackles in his own.

The grip on her other hand tightens. They both take a step closer.

He’s absolutely terrified.

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. A Glasgow kiss. Well, the nice version anyway. The thought makes him smile even as his blood starts to carbonate. Sam shifts against him, their noses grazing one another.

Then her lips are brushing his cheek. They’ve been so close for so long, been walking down this path slowly but surely, yet somehow the gesture feels like hello. A greeting. She lingers there, lips barely parted from his skin.

“Malcolm,” she breathes. His name meets the cool of her kiss on his cheek. He shivers and it’s wonderful. A familiar panic creeps up his spine. He knows what it means and lets his heart convert it to something else, something better.

He leans forward the scant few centimeters between them. Kisses her cheek too. Skims the tip of his nose along the skin in front of her ear. Sam hums pleasantly.

“Yeah?” he says, not quite sure what question he’s asking.

Their temples meet and he can feel Sam’s shallow breath creeping past his collar. He rubs his cheek to hers, stalling, delaying pulling back to see what expression she wore, what sentence her eyes were carrying.

So he doesn’t. Instead, he repositions. Long ago he’d memorized how he and Sam might fit together. He could find her lips in his sleep, in his dreams. In the darkened foyer of his house.

The first touch of his lips to hers is like losing every bit of oxygen left in his lungs and the second is like getting it all back at once.

He kisses her lightly. Tentative. Like a fleeting question he’s afraid to finish.

Is this-

Can I-

He kisses her twice like that, just enough to taste her lips. Then he finally pulls back and risks opening his eyes. Sam’s are downcast and he’s too scared to lift her chin.

He would be happy to keep going, to kiss her again, to silence whatever potentially crushing words she might be preparing to say.  But he needs to know and he would rather know now. If she’s changed her mind he wants to know while the last particle of his heart was still his. He would gather it up and let her go. Chalk up his actions to the hour and pray she would do the same. Pray she would still let him be her friend.

He closes his eyes again, bracing.

Seconds tick by. An eternity.

Then her fingers skim his lips. Tracing their shape. They part on their own as he exhales in anxious relief. His eyes open hesitantly, afraid to find out if this is a dream too. She lays her palm against his cheek and touches the tips of her fingers to his hair. One of them is trembling. He’s not sure whom.

“It’s okay,” she whispers reverently, stretching up to touch her lips to the corner of his mouth. His breath dies in his throat. “It’s okay, love.”  

 

* * *

 

Sam has always had the advantage between them. But even now, when he is entirely undone and so utterly hers, she does not press it. Instead, she lets him dictate every kiss, while her hands flit from his hips to his shoulders before glancing over his chest and settling one on his back and one behind his head.

He tries to make each kiss last as long as possible, their lips sealed together, just in case it is the last. The kisses remain delicate, almost demure, but every time he breaks away, Sam’s ragged breath and hazy eyes match his own. During one of these brief intermissions, her fingers scrape up into his hair and a jolt of pleasure surges through him. He hurries forward to kiss her again, a small peck until he has the lungs to press them together for longer, and somehow it is this that causes Sam to gasp against him, to pull him to her and to follow him as he goes to move away.

His hands, which had been resting lightly on her hips, find new purchase on her back. Their heads tilt from side to side as they try to breathe without breaking their exquisite embrace. It’s clear to him they can only keep that up for so long, and so Malcolm gingerly kisses over to the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, and down to her jawline. When his lips find the crease where jaw becomes neck, Sam gasps again.

“ _Oh_.” The word flows from her mouth more breath than noise. Something equally breathy follows. It sounds like his name.

Following the path from under her ear and down the side of her neck, he tugs her coat out of the way. Sam quickly sheds it, letting it join her bag on the floor. Less encumbered, he lets his lips explore as much as her jumper and his honor will allow. It is not enough and it is also so, so much more than he could ever have dreamed.

In no reality could he ever deserve to hold this woman in his arms, kiss her luminous skin, and trail his nose along her neck inhaling the heady mixture of sweat and warm citrus. If she only ever wanted this much, he would gladly kiss her and only that for the rest of his godforsaken life.

One of Sam’s arms slips under his coat and around his waist. Her fingers dig into his lower back, making him mouth hungrily just above the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He feels the moment her breath stutters.   

It only serves to make him pull her closer, kiss her more firmly. He searches out any bit of her collarbone he can and settles for the notch at the base of her throat. It is difficult to concentrate, to learn where bone becomes tendon and then yielding skin, because he keeps losing himself in the way Sam touches the hair curling by his ear. Such a small caress, like he is as precious to her as she is to him. Is he? Could she...?

“Malcolm,” she coos in his ear and pushes at his own coat.

Letting go barely long enough to let it drop, he wraps one long arm around her so his fingers can knead gently at her side. The other hand is behind her pressing them close. She returns her fingers to his spine, sliding beneath his fleece so that when she scratches up and back down, only his undershirt separates nails from skin. A frisson of pleasure makes him gasp against her throat.

In some distant part of his mind he wonders if Sam expected fire and brimstone from him. If she would prefer it. Then both her hands drag up through his hair to bring him away from her neck and back to her lips and he stops caring.

For the first time, she takes charge. Her mouth is scorching and soothing all at once. She is straining up to him, balancing on her toes, and when he takes the initiative to pull her against him, they both inhale sharply.

As if by design, their lips part simultaneously and they groan together as their tongues meet. Heat flashes through them. Malcolm’s blood is bubbling, his heart ablaze in the purest and best way possible. When Sam’s teeth inadvertently catch on his lower lip, his chest drops and he is gone, gone, gone.

His hands spread wide at her lower back, melding them together, thumbs coming around to glance across her ribcage. Sam angles his hips towards her. In a blink, the kiss turns sloppy, hasty, and Malcolm feels his head spiraling out of control.

And just as quickly, she breaks away. His groan of protest changes tune midway because she’s already kissing his jaw, his neck. Her mouth is gentle on his raging pulse. Tilting his head a little further back, he melts against her as she returns his attentions from minutes before. Words bubble up, feelings, thoughts, wishes he wants to tell her, must tell her. But he can scarcely breathe let alone talk.

“Sam,” he says, panting with the effort. “I- I…”

But words are superfluous, especially when Sam covers his mouth with hers again. His jumper is fisted in her hands as if he might try to pull away from her magnificent lips. As though he could ever be so fucking stupid. He threads his fingers into her hair and presses their hips together again. Sam groans and his very bones feel the vibration.

Amidst the overload of sensations, he feels fingers slide down his arm, tickle past his elbow and continue on, searching. He meets them with his own and she squeezes his hand tight, nails digging in a bit. Something about the moment makes his heart thud to a halt, and he gasps painfully.

Sam’s lips leave his in an instant. He hears more than sees her swallow harshly. She nestles her forehead to his jaw, breathing hard against him.

“M’sorry,” she says, her voice quiet and thick. She relaxes her grip. “I just…”

“What?” he murmurs against her forehead. One hand caresses leisurely up and down her back. “What?” he asks again, his entire body thrumming.

“I wanted to make sure you’re real,” she whispers, “that this is real.”

The hand on her back pauses, and Malcolm ducks to her ear to whisper, “It fucking better well be.”

He leans back and meets her dark eyes. Then they both giggle and every bit of space in his chest fills with the musical sound of Sam’s quiet laugh. He brings her hand to his lips and holds it there a beat, his eyes closed. When he opens them, Sam is still smiling but her eyes have changed. They’re glassy and bright and still invitingly warm.  

He kisses her again, softer, simpler. Lips closing over one another every other second. Her arms slip under his and she anchors herself on his back. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his around her. Keeping her close. Malcolm smiles as he kisses Sam Cassidy, one, two, a dozen more times.

 

 


	17. Malcolm: The Garrison Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really a part two to chapter 16 but since I didn't specify chapter 16 as part 1, I gave it a different title. You probably don't care. You just want to read the dang chapter right? Carry on.

 

 

They end up on the couch. Still clothed, mind, because he’s still fucking terrified.

Sam is tucked between him and the back of the couch, dozing, and somehow, seemingly, entirely at peace. Malcolm, on the other hand, lays wide awake, his mind almost jittery.

He is the luckiest fucking sod in the entire universe. In every universe. No other way to see it.

It was beyond description to just _hold_ her like this. When was the last time he’d held someone? Or been held? He tries not to think about it too hard because he knows both answers too readily: he can’t remember and that must mean it was Eileen. And of the people and things he doesn’t want to think about right now his ex-wife is definitely on the fucking list.

He would much rather think about Sam. The sound of her laughter. The glow of her cheeks. About how, with his mouth against hers, he could feel every breath, every shiver, every hum and sigh.

They’d carried on kissing until she’d been the one to pull them from the luxurious haze. It was far too late for her to be driving home. Any other night and she would’ve already been asleep alone on his couch. But tonight, after he’d begged off for a quick dash to the loo, Sam was still waiting for him. She’d shyly led him to the couch with her. Somewhere in his mind, Malcolm had thought to protest. Then Sam had kissed him gently on the lips and again even softer and Malcolm found himself incapable of doing much of anything except to lie back and relish in the feel of Sam fitting herself into his side.   

As if prompted by his memories, Sam stirs against him, repositioning herself. He holds his breath until she stills again, one of his hands laying flat to her back.

It’s not as if he hadn’t hoped for this or known they were maybe, possibly, getting incrementally closer. He’s not a complete moron. But believing it had actually happened, was happening, is harder to grasp. And maybe a bit overwhelming if he’s honest.

There had been an instant, more than one really, where the enormity of it all had almost gotten to him. Relief and joy and disbelief all swirling together tightly in his chest so that he’d found himself working hard to keep from crying. This wasn’t a time for tears, even happy ones.

In his stupider moments, he’d thought this, their journey together that had somehow miraculously led them to his couch and this moment, was like some fucking fairytale. Except he’d definitely been the princess in the tower needing to be rescued. Sam didn’t need a knight in shining armor. Doesn’t want one. He knows this. But what exactly does she want?

“Stop.”

Malcolm jumps. “Sorry?” He immediately lifts his hands but Sam grabs one and brings it back down.

“No,” she says, planting her chin on his shoulder. She gently runs her fingers through the hair above his ear then presses his temple. “Stop thinking.”

He exhales heavily. “Not much chance of that, love. Got a lot on my mind.” He holds her palm to his cheek for a beat, eyes heavy on hers.

There’s a twitch of her lips before Sam raises herself up and leans an elbow on the arm of the couch so she is slightly above him. “Like what?” she asks, hand tensing minutely against his cheek.

Malcolm considers how to answer. “Like...” he says slowly, “I think my coat is probably a crumpled fucking mess over there on the floor. Yours too, for that matter.”

“I hung them up while you were in the loo.”

“Y’did? Right then…” He should’ve known better. He glances around searchingly, angling his head away from her. Sam’s foot burrows under his ankle and she wiggles her toes entreatingly. Clever woman.

He smiles before saying softly, “I was thinking, I like having you here. Not just in the house but _here_.” The hand on her back presses against her for emphasis.

“Yeah?” Sam says quietly. She turns his head back towards her, her thumb brushing over an eyebrow and smoothing a frown he didn’t know had manifested there. How did she always seem to know him better than he knew himself? Peering up at her, Malcolm marvels at Sam as she affectionately gives the same treatment to the other eyebrow. She catches him gazing and despite their current positions and the fact they’d spent quite a bit of time snogging in his foyer this evening, Malcolm blushes. Old habits.

“What else?” Sam prompts. Bending forward, she leaves a tiny kiss on the tip of his nose and Malcolm snorts softly, amused. The heat of Sam’s breathy laugh in response is replaced by a second peck to his nose.

Malcolm’s heart jumps against his ribs. His fingers on her back flex. Sam hums quietly, eyes closed, her smile unfolding into something even lovelier by the second. She shifts against him, her thigh pressing more firmly into his side.

“I was thinking... that you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.” His eyes dance over her. “And I’ve no idea what my life would be, what I would be, without you.”

The palm on his cheek is suddenly warmer and he can see the heat spreading up her neck. He watches the soft skin of her throat as she swallows roughly. Wonders what it would feel like to kiss her there. He had gotten only the smallest taste earlier before she’d pulled him back to her mouth instead. Not that he was complaining.

He studies her face, how the blush on her lips was the same as on her cheeks. She really was far too good for him. Far too kind and generous and patient. Too beautiful. Malcolm’s mind is a mess of words and thoughts. He feels himself falling further and further. It had started hours ago, or perhaps the moment they’d finally kissed, or no, even before that. The longer he examines the feeling the farther back it seems to stretch until he cannot find the start, only the surety of the emotion itself. He feels the shallow rise and fall of her chest and matches his breathing to hers until he feels steadier.

“And I was thinking…” he says, clinging to every vestige of courage he’s ever possessed, “...that I love you.”

Her eyes flick over him quickly, the hand on his cheek utterly still. They both hold their breath.

Sam blinks. Then a smile flickers back onto her face.

“Just thinking?” she says.

“No,” he replies, sounding choked, even as a smile pulls at one corner of his lips too. Sam swoops forward to kiss him right there, then again more fully when a full smile blooms under her mouth. Malcolm gasps in surprise and the hammering of his heart doubles. Drawing her hands through his hair as best she can, Sam presses him further into the couch.

“Well...” she says, leaning back after a few minutes. “Let me know when you decide.” Her fingers stroke the curve of his ear nonchalantly except he can feel the slight shudder of her breath and the tremble in her touch.

Slightly dazed, Malcolm takes a minute to calm himself before turning his head to kiss Sam’s wrist. He takes her hand, holds it to his cheek again, and locks eyes with her. “Decided a long time ago, love.” He murmurs the words into her palm. Seals them with a kiss.

“Me too,” she whispers. She leans in to kiss his lips and then his face before nestling herself against him once more. With one arm pulling him closer, she lays her head on his chest. Entirely unwilling to move, Malcolm grabs the blanket on the back of the couch and lays it over them haphazardly before settling into sleep.  

 

* * *

 

He wakes hours later to find they’ve somehow switched positions. Now his head lay on her chest, her heartbeat tickling his cheek, her quiet exhales whispering pleasantly past his ear. He tries to readjust them but her hand is in his hair, holding him in place.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmurs.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love-” a beat then- “but this couch is not built for both of us and my back is already fucking screaming at me.”

He cranes his neck to look at her. With effort, Sam cracks one eye open to glare down at him, and the sight is altogether too much for Malcolm to take. Chuckling, he hugs her quickly and then clambers upright. “Come on,” he says, taking hold of both her hands.

They shuffle their way to the bottom of the stairs where he directs her ahead of him. With both feet on the first stair, she turns, plants both hands on the side of his head and kisses him far more directly than he thought her capable of in her current state. He can’t help gasping yet again. Sam is not much shorter than him but the height of the stair is enough to slightly reverse their usual positions. When he wraps both arms around her and steps closer, he has to tilt his head back to keep kissing her, which was perfectly fucking fine with him. But as quickly as the kiss had begun, Sam pulls away. A few kisses to his cheek and jaw and then she is falling against him in a hug, arms around his neck, all her energy consumed in the brief but pointed kiss.

With his arms tight around her, Malcolm pushes his face into her neck and sighs happily. How many times had he dreamed of holding her? Being this close to her? Able to kiss her? He wanted to be able to do all of it for the rest of his life. Surely that was... They hadn’t talked much but she must…

They sway gently side to side, sleep pulling at them. Eventually and regretfully, Malcolm untangles them both and ushers her upstairs and straight to one side of his bed. He pulls back the covers and gently pushes her to sit down. As he moves away, Sam holds tightly to his wrist, a worried look on her face.

But there’s no need. He kisses her forehead, detaches her grip, and climbs in the other side. The covers haven’t even stilled over him and Sam is already fitting herself into his side again.

“Good,” she mumbles, one arm flung over his chest. He silently agrees.

Malcolm gathers her closer. Sam is already drifting off once more. There were still things to talk about, probably, conversations to have, clarifications to make. At the very least he ought to apologize for taking so damn long, though he wonders how much Sam minded the wait. A part of him had been wondering if they could’ve had this all along. If it could’ve always been this way. But he doesn’t think so. It had to be now, _this_ Malcolm and Sam, because any other versions would’ve fucked it up as soon as they’d started.  

When he thinks on it now, the wait seems ridiculously long and also no time at all. He’d spent long enough chasing all of the wrong things. In comparison, he’d really spent far too short a time quietly courting Sam.

He turns to kiss her hair and smells the familiar scent of her shampoo. Another flood of emotion pours through him and he can’t hold it back.

“I love you,” he says faintly, sleep already taking him. But he needs to say it. Say the words properly. Doesn’t even need to hear them back. Just needs them to exist somewhere outside of himself. He’s been harboring them far too long.

He thinks she must already be asleep and really that’s fine, they have plenty of time, but then she presses against his side and clutches his jumper. With a small turn of her head, she plants a kiss to his chest.  

“I love you too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter to go. I can't believe it either.


	18. Sam: Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To every single reader, thank you. You've made publishing this story an absolute treat. Whether you've been here since chapter 1 or just caught up, I hope you enjoy this last chapter.

 

**One Year Later**

 

On the weekends he likes to kiss her awake.

Pull her slowly and pleasantly from her dreams by nuzzling her neck and trailing wispy kisses along her jaw. It was a decidedly wonderful way to wake up.

The only problem is, Malcolm hardly ever wakes first anymore.

During the week he was very good at waking up with her alarm. While she got ready for work, he’d throw a robe on over his pajamas and make breakfast. A sleepy, rumpled Malcolm Tucker frying eggs and toast for you was a recommended way to start any day but even so, she’d tried to tell him to sleep in. What former workaholic wouldn’t sleep in every day given the chance? But he’d shaken his head, claimed he liked getting up early. That way he could start his day before it was half over.

She suspects what he really likes is making sure she eats a real breakfast and being awake enough to kiss her goodbye at the door.

The weekends though? A complete crapshoot. Her alarm, the same one that woke him so readily during the week, had no effect. Neither did her getting up from or sneaking back into bed. Malcolm just slept on.

But he liked to kiss her awake. So sometimes Sam humored him and pretended to be asleep. Other times she laid there and just observed him.

Like now.

He says he can always feel when she’s doing it but she knows he’s full of it. He never wakes. Or when he does, he never says anything about her gaze being the reason. In all fairness though, that’s usually because she’s too busy putting his mouth to better uses.

Malcolm is as pale and handsome and heavenly as ever. Perpetually skinny, he’s filled out a tad for what she suspects might be the first time in his life. Lean muscle had developed in his arms and back. The dark brown hair at the base of his neck is more pronounced than even a year ago. She knew from regular caresses that it was downy and springy.

The last tendril of weariness had long since left his frame and somehow he looks younger to her now than he did in the two years they were in Opposition. She’d said as much to him once and he’d smiled at some secret and shrugged in a way that made her unsure if she wanted to roll her eyes at him or kiss him. Probably both.

He sleeps curled in on himself, stealing more than his share of blankets because he was always, in his own words, “fucking freezing.” It was the same reason he wore a shirt to bed, no matter how much Sam would prefer he didn’t. Though there was, of course, some satisfaction in removing it herself.

Sighing happily, she detects the fresh flowers on her bedside table. He’d brought them in the day before and their fragrance blends pleasantly with Malcolm’s slightly spicy scent. The garden is flourishing beyond what he had anticipated. Flowers and vegetables alike growing almost too fast for him to keep up with. They had such an overabundance of vegetables, Sam often took them into the office and gave them away to her boss, coworkers, clients, anyone who would take them.

Malcolm still wrote the occasional political commentary but the garden was where he devoted most of his time. He worked in it several times a week and tried very hard to coax her into joining him. A few times she had but found it wasn’t her passion.

It is, however, her passion to watch Malcolm as _he_ gardened. Watching him bring things to life and introduce more and more color into their world. Watching as he fussed and fretted, the cords in his neck and arms straining, sweat darkening his hair and streaking down the side of his face, curses occasionally flowing from his mouth when things don’t go the way he wanted.

More than once she’d intercepted him on his way in for a drink or a break. Tugged him forward and kissed the salt from his lips. Usually Malcolm half-heartedly protested as she maneuvered him to the couch, something about sweat and dirt, but by then Sam was already divesting him of his shirt, following the thin rivulets of sweat on the tendons of his neck, and snogging the life out of him. She’d kiss him until they were both lightheaded and out of breath and Malcolm had forgotten all about his protestations and his secret self-consciousness about his lanky frame. Right about then was when he’d grab her hand and hustle her upstairs to repay the favor.

Warmed by the memories, Sam scooches closer and risks slipping a hand beneath Malcolm’s shirt and up to his chest. It always pleased her how easy it was to find the steady, sure beat of his heart. She nestles her fingers into his coarse chest hair. Hand spreading wide, she pushes gently against his chest, using the leverage to wriggle herself closer still to his back.

As morning light bathes their bedroom, she kisses delicately at the base of his neck before nuzzling her nose against his hair. He’s kept it a little long but manageable. She tried to convince him to let it grow a tad more but he’d eventually drawn the line no matter how much he liked how she tugged on it when he-

“Mmmmmppphhh.” Malcolm stirs a little, craning his head back towards her and inhaling deeply so that his chest pushes against her hand.

Lips curling up in delight, Sam draws her hand down to his side and uses it to push up the shirt slightly. She dips down to leave a kiss at the base of his spine. Then another. And another, pushing the shirt higher. Malcolm shudders.

“Fucking incorrigible,” he murmurs into his pillow but raises his arms on command to shimmy out of the shirt. He does, however, grab the sheet to cover his chest and arms, his shyness and sensitivity to the cool morning air making Sam’s heart swell. She massages at his exposed back with her hands, fingers, and lips, tracing up, up, up his spine until she is at his neck once again. Then she flings her arm around his chest and pulls herself over to quickly kiss his jaw before flopping onto her back.

It was best to leave things there. They would need to get up soon. Today they were having breakfast with Jamie. Whether or not they showed up late for the reasons Jamie would assume, they’d never hear the end of it and it’s not a running joke she’d like to start.

There’s a scrape of metal on Malcolm’s nightstand and a shuffling before he turns himself towards her and snuggles into her side. No matter how entwined they were when they fell asleep, invariably they woke up apart. Both were always quick to change that once they were conscious.

Head nuzzling underneath her jaw and face against her chest, Malcolm fits himself into her curves with practiced ease. One of his legs wiggles to create space for itself between hers. Just when she thinks he’s settled completely, his hand sneaks under her shirt at the side. She inhales sharply at his cold fingers and colder ring before relaxing.

As she lazily pets his still bare back, her own ring glints in the early morning light. Malcolm shivers against her and she gathers him in. Her poor cold, Glaswegian husband.

The word still sent a thrill through her. So much so that she shivers a little too and Malcolm clutches her closer.

Her husband.

The odd thing about marrying Malcolm was it didn’t feel odd at all. For once, everything seemed to fall into place for them.

Two months after she’d woken up next to him, her lips still tingling from every moment they’d spent pressed against him, she’d moved in. It wasn’t so much a question either of them asked but an obvious step forward. She was tired of living half the time at his and half the time at her flat. He was tired of saying good night to her at the door rather than next to her in bed.

They’d spent an entire weekend moving her things and at the end were surprised how seamlessly her life melded with his. Her books were at home on his shelves, her clothes filled every bit of empty space in his closet and drawers, and a large stash of the lovely chocolate biscuits fit perfectly in his cupboard. That Sunday evening they had fallen asleep breathing one another in, both, she suspects, feeling the same pleasant fullness in their chests.

That winter, he’d taken her to Scotland for a weeklong vacation and they’d stayed with his mother for a few nights. It was there, Sam later learned, that he’d gotten his great grandmother’s ring. Until then the memory that had most stuck out to her from that visit was sneaking out of her room in the dead of night to poke him awake where he laid on the couch. Then she’d scarpered him into her room instead to kiss him breathless and fall asleep splayed out across him.

A few months later, while sitting in their garden after dinner, he’d taken her hand and smiled shakily at her. It was mildly reassuring as he’d been acting strange all evening, picking at his dinner, expression far, far away.

“You alright?” she’d asked and Malcolm nodded.

“Fucking brilliant, love.” He leaned closer and in a sweetly stuttering sentence told her he’d called her parents that morning.

“What for?” she’d asked, heart in her throat.

“For their blessing.” His fingers tightened around hers. “And they gave it to me.”

Tears already welling up, Sam had sniffed softly before replying, “Crazy old codgers.”

“They must be,” Malcolm said, his own eyes wet too. Then he’d dropped to one knee and held out that beautiful antique ring. She’d hardly been able to let him finish proposing before she’d launched herself at him, mumbling yes, yes, of course yes, against his lips, his neck, his ear.

The ceremony had been small and private and outside the city. Just immediate family and a few friends in attendance. Though the press had long since given up any interest in Malcolm, they felt there was no reason to tempt the piranha pack. Malcolm looked handsome and nervous in his suit and when he saw her coming up the aisle, she’d seen his breath catch. If she hadn’t already been, she would’ve fallen in love with him right then.  

They had only been married a few months and she supposes that technically means they are still in the honeymoon phase but it didn’t feel that way. Though, she thinks with a blush, it did sometimes feel like they were still newlyweds.

Sometimes she felt they were ages away from the Sam and Malcolm they had been in government. And yet, without that time, without the mind-numbing meetings and continuous late nights and the actual blood, sweat, and tears, she knows they never would’ve gotten here.

Back in bed, she curls her arm around Malcolm so her fingers can fill the spaces between his ribs. She kisses his forehead fondly and he hums against her collarbone. Malcolm’s rapidly warming hand glides up to just below her ribcage and back down. He sidles down her side to press his face into the softness of her belly. Her hand returns to his hair.

“Malcolm,” she says warningly.

He kisses the turn of her rib through her nightshirt then looks up at her. “Good morning, love,” he says, his voice sleepy and content.

“Morning,” she says, fingers sweeping through his tousled curls. “Cold?”

“Naw,” he says, burrowing closer, both hands curving around to her back.

“You remember we have breakfast with Jamie, yeah?”

“Mmmmmmmm.” His lips flutter against her side. “Let the fucker wait a while. S’too early to get up. Why did we agree to breakfast on a Saturday?”

“ _You_ agreed,” she corrects, swallowing the bite of her reprimand when Malcolm kisses her rib again, a little longer than before.

“Why’d you let me do that?” he says against the curve of bone. There’s such real indignation in his voice Sam would smack him if she weren’t already working so hard at keeping her eyes open and mind focused.

After several seconds, she manages to say, “Because I’m not your fucking keeper, Malcolm Tucker.”

He raises his head to look at her, eyes sparkling with mischief and affection and everything she loves about him. A wry grin tugs at one corner of his mouth and now she really did need to smack him or kiss him or something because it was unacceptable for him to look that fucking good this early.

Except she can’t do any of that because he has already ducked down again. He works his nose under her shirt and scoots it aside to kiss her stomach.

“Don’t you dare,” she says even as she ripples with excitement.

“Turnabout,” he murmurs, lips feather light and ticklish against her skin. “And...” he breathes her in and exhales heavily, his hot breath sweeping over her exposed belly. Only the waistband of her bottoms stops it from going lower. “...and all that.”

His thumbs inch her shirt up higher and push deliciously at her sides.

“ _Malcolm.”_ Her fingers tighten in his hair.

With a huff, he pulls her down and deftly kisses her on the mouth in the same motion. Sam is boneless at once. So often he kissed her like it was the first time, memorizing her lips all over again. As though he didn’t already know every dip, every curve.

Taking advantage of his shirtlessness, Sam slides her hands around his back and up to his shoulders, bringing him down to her. No part of him felt cold to her now. She lets them carry on for several minutes, until her shirt is bunched to her chest and Malcolm is starting to pant. Then she glides her fingertips along his sides, thumbs brushing the planes of his stomach.

Malcolm jerks away, his belly quivering. “No fucking tickling,” he says, squirming to escape her fingers but without letting go of her.

“No?” Sam grins at him. “Then you best get up out of this bed.”

He swoops down to kiss her quiet again and is just nibbling her bottom lip when she trails her fingernails over his sides. Again he jerks back, failing to smother his giggle.

“Fucking siren, you know that?” he says, darting forward for a last kiss, then dramatically falling onto his back next to her.

“Hmm,” she says, unapologetically. She heaves herself out of bed before she succumbs to the rising desire coursing through her. “Somehow I think you’ll live.”

When she returns from the loo, hair up and face freshly washed, Malcolm is lounging with one arm bent over his eyes. She picks up one of the pillows on the floor and hurls it at him.

“Get up, you daft man.”

The pillow comes flying back her direction but it’s a half-hearted attempt that she easily sidesteps. Malcolm pulls himself out of bed and she notes he’s slipped his shirt back on. As he ambles past her, an exaggerated frown on his face, her heart flips with affection for this man. Her grumpy, sweet husband. She stops him with hand on the shoulder.

“Hey,” she says softly and perches up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

Malcolm glances sideways at her and the frown melts into an easy smile. He kisses her hand and brings it down to rest over his heart for one beat, two, and then he slides into the loo.

Forty-five minutes later she is stepping into her shoes at the front door when Malcolm calls down the stairs, “No tie, right?”

“No tie! It’s just Jamie, Malcolm. I know he said he wanted to talk business but you don’t need to…” She falls silent as he hurries down to her. He is wearing the dark navy suit, the one that highlights the bright translucence of his skin and the silver in his hair. It had a striking effect on him. And her too, for that matter.

“Y’ready, love?”

Clearing her throat, she nods and goes to grab her purse. When she looks back, he is holding open the front door for her. He tugs on his jacket and fingers his hair. Sunlight flashes off his wedding ring. He’d had it specially made to match the antique look of hers.

Too caught up in watching him she fails to look away before he catches her. “Something wrong with the suit?” he says, all innocence but for the darkening look in his eyes and the grin dying to spread on his face.

She narrows her eyes appraisingly, lips pursing, and says in her best exasperated tone, “Hmmmmm. Come here.”

She needlessly brushes off his shoulders and fixes his lapels and then, when she spots the flirtatious gleam in his gaze, briefly considers giving in to the temptation to shove him against the door and snog him senseless. Give Jamie (and their neighbors) something to talk about.

Instead, she pecks him on the corner of the mouth and takes her time wiping away the tiny smear of red from her lipstick. If she concentrates very hard she’s sure she can still smell Malcolm’s flowers underneath his aftershave and the knowledge makes her lips quirk. When she finally steps away, a pinkish hue marks his cheekbones.

“Ready,” she says, smirking a tad as she sways past him.

Malcolm snorts in amusement and locks the door behind them. At the bottom of the front steps, he takes her hand even though the walk to the car is short. The day was working hard to dry up the puddles from last night’s downpour. They’d gotten an unusual amount of rain this month. It had ruined their evening plans to sit out in the garden more than once. Then again, staying in wasn’t so terrible.  

When he opens the passenger door for her, Malcolm pauses. “I know we’re cutting it a wee bit close,” he says, “but it’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I know,” she says, laying a reassuring hand on his chest. The sun is blindingly bright even though clouds loom on the horizon and she has to shield her eyes with her other hand.

Blinking up at him, Sam smiles and Malcolm’s face splits into a matching grin. He picks up her hand and kisses her palm. Then, just as he’d done upstairs, he lays his hand over hers and holds her to his heart. Her smile broadens as she says, “I’m not worried.”  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the thing you need to know. A little over a year ago, elloette suggested I write some fanfic. I have been in fandoms a long time and read fic for years but never, ever thought about seriously writing something of my own or publishing it. But she was lovingly persistent. I happened to be re-watching TTOI right about then and was struck with imagining where Malcolm went at the end of the episode where it's his birthday. I could see the interaction with Sam in his office so clearly and that hug stood out to me. So that's what I wrote. And darn it, elloette was so positive in her feedback that the ideas kept coming. I had an outline before I knew it and I knew my two idiots in love wouldn't kiss properly until almost the end of the fic, which somehow ballooned into this multi-chapter thing, and I just fell in love with writing this story. 
> 
> Amazingly, I kept writing it (mostly because elloette kept demanding more) and even more amazingly, I actually published it for all of you to read too. Now that it's over, I can't honestly believe it even happened. I'm really going to miss writing The Garrison Heart. Thank you again to all of you for reading and commenting and thank you most of all to my beta, my number one source of encouragement, elloette. You're the actual best and I'm really sorry I made you wait so long for Malcolm and Sam's first kiss <3


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